


"From Far, From Eve and Morning."

by moz17



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moz17/pseuds/moz17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This started as a prompt fill and has now lengthened. A piece about the growing understanding, friendship and more between Jakes and Morse. (Eventual Jakes/Morse).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To fill this prompt: 
> 
> "When alone in the office, Morse does his work whilst singing (opera, hopefully). One night, someone catches him."
> 
> I hope this is somewhat what you would have liked. I wanted to write a little character study where nothing much particularly happens, but I may expand upon it.

Yes, he knew there was no overtime on this job. That wasn't the reason why he stayed so late. He would have hesitated to admit that he had a reason, that he stayed on after hours by conscious choice.  
Sometimes, just when the last person had left and he could feel himself relaxing, he would attribute his staying late to his preference for solitude. Here, behind his desk there were no neighbour's parties or arguments, no feet stomping too close to his door. Here was seclusion, not having to answer to the hundred little hooks and pinches of other people's demands- to say hello and talk about the weather, to be available for rounds, to be a seemingly open target for whoever happened to pass by him.  
Here he didn't have to endure the thumping on his door when he played his records late into the night. He would eventually give in and turn off the record player, chafing against the empty stillness which settled over his bedsit. He would proceed to pour himself a decent measure of a decent whiskey and take out a poetry book, usually Housman, and would there seek a replacement for the sound and colours which his opera had lent to his room.  
He did think of it as "his" opera. It was his, for him only; he and his records contra mundum.  
He could not understand those individuals who experienced his records as a disturbance. How could they not feel how the small hours of the night were the most ideal time for listening to opera? The time of night when the mind drifts lightly over the waters of memory, and turns then from these reflections to considerations of the abstract and general, to the great questions of the mind, and heart, the arias stirring him to even greater rumination.  
Sitting here was also very conducive to working on a case and he would pour over evidence, cocooned by the industrial coloured walls of the police station.  
Other nights he would merely sit, files and photographs spread in front of him, and he would allow his mind to drift, buffeted by the winds of his thoughts and associations.  
He had started out merely humming phrases of songs, even speaking a line or two of Italian, quietly; it went well with his thinking. Over time, he had gone from mouthing phrases to singing, at half voice, entire Lieder.  
This evening, it was Bellini's "I Puritani" which he was focused on, as he sang Arturo's role, the part he was capable of executing with his light tenor. He was leaning back, flicking leisurely through case files, letting the statements settle into his mind, to rest there and be slowly worked over, mined for their every implication and possible nuance.  
"I didn't realise this was a stage."  
Morse jerked upright whilst simultaneously dipping his head to the side, so as not to have to confront the intruder directly.  
Jakes leaned on the doorway, cigarette dangling from his lips, unlit. Morse found it difficult to make out more than his outline for the only source of light was that from the lamp pooling at his desk. Morse put his hand up to the back of his neck and tugged at the hair there. He inwardly cursed. Anyone hearing him singing was bad enough, but Jakes was the worst possible candidate for being witness to it. Morse sighed, imagining how intolerable drinks in the pub would be with the constables being regaled with some exaggerated imitation of his singing. He could only imagine that the other man felt himself to have hit the jackpot in terms of ammunition against himself.  
"I didn't realise there was anyone else here."  
"Only sing for yourself do you? Doesn't that defeat the point of singing?" Jakes began to walk towards the desk, lighting his cigarette as he went.  
Endeavour didn't know how to respond to the comment and instead reached once more for the papers on his desk.  
"You do know what time it is, don't you?" Jakes asked him as he perched himself on the edge of the desk. He exhaled, the breath of smoke and his dark eyes both seeming to be full of mockery. Morse waited for what he knew to be the inevitable sneering condemnation.  
"Yes. Are you?"  
"I'm just dropping something off on my way into the town. I have no plans to stay here long." Jakes flicked his eyes up and down over his colleague. A furrow appeared in Morse's brow as he looked back at Jakes for a moment before turning to the sheets in front of him.  
"I don't see why they need the whole bloody orchestra."  
"Sorry?" Morse eyed him warily, from the corner of his eye, on edge now that the attack was still to be made. He did not know where Jakes was going with this.  
"For the opera. That's what you were singing, wasn't it?" He took another drag on his cigarette.  
"Yes. From Bellini's 'I Puritani'."  
Jakes gave a small "hm" of laughter through his nose. "That means nothing to me."  
"I was just giving you information." Did Jakes want him to goad him into mocking him for his opera?  
"Anyway. The opera. The singing's enough. I don't think it needs all that clash and blaring of instruments. It's nice enough on its own, just sung by one voice, nothing else."  
Endeavour looked sharply back up at Jakes, subjecting him to a scrutinising glare. He merely looked back with an unsaid "What?" in his eyes. He finished he cigarette and flicked the butt into the nearest bin.  
"Now I know where to find you." Jakes said, a smile curling cat-like at his lips and Endeavour reflected a pale copy of it as a response, uncertain how else to react, merely wanting to make the other man leave, make him leave before anything could go wrong.  
Jakes got up and walked back the way he came, quietly but audibly repeating, "Yes, now I know where to find the songbird."


	2. Shortbread.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt:
> 
> "Morse forgets to eat whilst on a case. At least that’s his excuse."
> 
> This part is from Jakes' POV. There will be an accompanying part from Morse's POV.

Just before leaving his bedsit each morning Peter Jakes would give his reflection one last going over. Days were long on this job but there was no need to betray that with a sloppy appearance. Jakes nearly revelled in knowing that whilst his colleagues went around in crumpled shirts and accumulated stains during the course of their work, that he managed to retain his sharp look. He enjoyed investing in properly fitted shirts and selecting ties and socks to accompany his suit. His flat may not have been much to look at- though scrubbed and almost army like in its austerity- but this was due to him reserving most of his wages for clothes, and cigarettes.  
He ran a hand over his combed and styled hair, barely grazing it, merely feeling if it lay in place. He liked his hair colour- in combination with his suit, fag and dark features, he thought he bore a likeness to the black and white pictures of movie stars which decorated the local cinema. Girls looked at him, he knew and this also pleased him. He made his entrance in the police station each morning, aware of the figure he cut as he strode through the office, before sitting down and crossing his legs, revealing the decadence of his socks, which was the one bit of colour and ostentatiousness that he would allow himself.  
Days were bloody long in this line of work. As soon as he sat down, the phones would ring, or he would be called into part of an investigation, more often than not criss-crossing Oxford in the course of his enquiries and barely having a moment to stop, the only break granted was when he paused in his walking to light his cigarette. This was partly why he preferred the setting of the pub in the evening- a chance to just sit and drink, to do something for no discernable reason. He hardly got a decent meal on this job. He had to grab for food whenever the opportunity presented itself; tea and biscuits brought in by a helpful secretary or attempting to nip into the newsagent when out and about. It wasn't as if he had a huge appetite. Smoking had put paid to that, deadening his sense of taste and removing any sharp hunger pangs. Food was just food and he hoovered it up when he could but didn't think about it too much because, well, it wasn't something you had to think about much, was it? It presented itself, you consumed it and you forgot about it until the next time you needed some. He had of late however, begun to notice the eating habits of those around him. Or to be specific, the lack thereof in a certain individual.  
Peter had been seeking to distance himself from Morse since walking in on him singing last week. Well, he said distancing himself but anyone else would have commented that Jakes couldn't get any further from Morse. He himself though believed he had crossed some line in calling him the songbird. The word had been out of his mouth before he could help it. He hoped that it had come off as a casual throw-away remark. If he was lucky, Morse's suspicious mind had found a mocking tone in it which Peter had not necessarily tried to give it.  
He found Morse's love of music the most understandable part of him, even if it was opera. He understood needing a different soundtrack to the landscape you were presented with on a daily basis. He almost had to smile at the sight of Morse, tilted back in his chair singing French or Italian or whatever it was, utterly apart from the rest of the world. He probably could have stood there for much longer without being noticed. He didn't have a half-bad voice, Morse. Peter remembered he sang in the choir. It was nice in a way then to have heard his voice, alone. He hadn't used the incident against Morse yet and he had to reluctantly admit to himself he probably wouldn't at all. Yes, he had set out to put Morse in his place from the moment they had met because he certainly needed to be taken down a peg or two. Yet, he also recognised the nascent brilliance in him. He wanted to resent Morse for it but couldn't. No, he was merely sulking in himself and would come around- though he would continue to pepper him with irritating remarks. Once you knew how to annoy Morse it was just too easy.  
He couldn't resent Morse his brilliance for it was simply how he was, it was just how things were. In school Peter had known he wasn't naturally the most gifted scholar. It was by dint of sheer slog and application that he had done so well, first at school and now with the police. It was unfair, he would allow himself that feeling, the unfairness of having someone so bright easily match him and quite often speed ahead of him. Resenting it wouldn't change it but he could console himself with the thought that his life would probably be easier than his colleague's, and he could also attempt to enjoy the colour Morse brought into this grey office. Perhaps that was what he had meant by songbird, that Morse almost was one, a little exotic thing. Peter observed him from afar, imagining what it must be like to have such music in your head, to carry it around with you, the knowledge you could at any moment open your mouth and sing those notes.  
In the course of these observations, something else became noticeable. Jakes was quite convinced he had never seen the other man eating.  
He did not know why this struck him and stayed with him so strongly. He went about his observations methodically, as was his manner.  
Working on a case, the two men would often spend the entire day together, or at least would continually cross each other's paths. From arriving in the morning until leaving at the end of a long evening he had never seen Morse consuming anything. The only sustenance he took were his rounds in the pub. Peter of course factored in that he did not see Morse before work in the morning or late at night after the pub. Morse's figure would seem to discount any late night feasts, for the young constable was even skinnier than he was. He doubted Morse could find clothes that fitted him properly even if he tried.  
It baffled him, in all honesty. He had imitated Morse's habits for one day and even smoking excess cigarettes couldn't kill the gnawing hunger or combat the slightly jittery weakness he experienced. Morse couldn't be doing this to himself everyday, could he? Peter didn't believe Morse was religious for this was the only time he had heard of people who neglected to eat- the saints who denied themselves as penance or to achieve enlightenment.  
So, he was unaware he was doing it. Perhaps it was just his lifestyle. Peter knew he was no great example when it came to nourishment himself. He thought of Thursday with his sandwiches, carefully made up by his wife each morning. They probably had proper sit down meals as well, including pudding.  
More time had passed since he had made these observations and still he did not know exactly what he thought he needed to do with them.  
Morse didn't look well, that was why this had stuck with Peter. He seemed as if he was holding his body together by sheer will.  
He wanted to offer Morse something; he held back though, knowing he couldn't, knowing how such a gesture would be received. He was also aware it would look plain odd, Jakes clucking around Morse like some motherhen. Morse himself would perceive the act as insincere and condescending, likely the prelude to some put down. He considered and rejected many permutations- he couldn't bring him something from the chippie, couldn't offer to buy him breakfast in a caff. He mulled over this knotty issue as he sat at this desk and smoked. He finally decided on what he considered the most suitable action.  
He returned ten minutes later, bearing two mugs of tea and a half a packet of shortbread biscuits clamped under his arm. He approached Morse's desk. Peter saw he was typing, painfully slowly, a report of a break in last night. He placed the mug beside Morse's elbow. The other man looked up, startled, questioning, as Peter sat on the corner of the desk.  
"Most people would say thanks."  
Morse gave him a quarter of a bemused looking smile but nonetheless reached for the mug. He placed both his hands around it and lifted it to his face, sipping at the too hot liquid. Jakes looked at him; his pale skin already seemed stretched paper thin, lined, his cheekbones sharply pointed and too defined. He looked exhausted. Balancing his mug and cigarette in one hand, Peter held out the packet of biscuits to Morse. He eyed the proferred package before accepting two of the biscuits. He dipped one into his tea and swallowed half of it.  
"Thanks." came unexpectedly, one clipped word.  
Jakes nodded. "Thought you could do with a tea break." He glanced at Morse once more, noting how he swiped at the sugary crumbs clinging to the corners of his mouth.


	3. Cigarettes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse's thoughts and reactions to Jakes's offer of tea and biscuits.

The taste of the nearly over-sweet short bread disintegrating on his tongue made Endeavour remember weekends from his childhood, weekends before his mother had died. She adored baking. It created a visible sense of contentment in her that even the young Morse was able to recognise. She enjoyed every aspect of the process- even writing out the shopping list. The two of them would share a sense of anticipation about what they would turn their collection of ingredients into.  
For he would help her in baking, though his father seemed to find it amusing for some reason that he would willingly aid his mother in the kitchen.  
"House work is also work." she would say and smile at both of them. His father would leave, nearly shaking his head over them. It did not prevent him however from enjoying the fruits of their labour.  
It was a quiet time, with no-one else around, no radio, and little talking. It was a friendly silence however. Endeavour and his mother were focussed on following the steps of the recipe and getting it just right. His mother used to have to read out the instructions to him but the time came when he was able to follow the words himself.  
He liked baking, as an activity. It was something physical and tangible, with a very real result. He like the contrasting sensations involved- plunging his hands into flour and butter, the coldness and softness of it, letting the mixture run lightly through his fingers, and then having to use all his upper body strength to stir a thick batch of mixture. He sometimes had the funny idea he could sink into the baking. His mother would alternate between tasks, either standing beside Endeavour and watching him work, or getting him to clean up and place order on the kitchen as she put the icing on the cakes.  
When the mixture had been placed in the oven and the washing and drying up taken care, he would wait for the first smells of their baking to emerge. It was warm and friendly, a preview of the sweet, light taste to come. His mother would ask him to set out her prettily patterned plates which they always ate their cakes off of and she trusted him to be able to carry them carefully to the table. They baked apple tarts, bread and butter pudding, fairy cakes and short bread.  
"Nothing tastes as good as your own baking and all the work you put into it." his mother would say to him. "My own mother told me that too." Endeavour agreed with them both firmly.  
Her mother had also passed on her baking skills to her daughter, perfected through years of practice. She worked quickly and handled the pastry deftly. Though she was a petite woman she was in possession of what Endeavour considered beautiful hands, long fingered, elegant looking but strong. Along with the memory of her softness and the scent of her hair, he could still bring up at will a picture of her hands, working, covered in flour, rolling pastry or kneading dough, folding it and slapping it on the table, reshaping it until it was just right. 

Then his mother had died and the baking had stopped.  
His father had absent-mindedly scraped together meals whenever he remembered to. More often than not he simply wasn't there. Endeavour had assumed he was out working more and more. He could understand that, the need to keep his mind occupied, to make the hours pass. He had thought there was some kind of distant understanding between them, the knowledge of sharing grief even if they did not put their grief into words or gestures.  
But then had come the realisation that they did not share this sorrow; quickly on the heels of this came the awareness that his family was now verging on being poor. 

His father remarried and now this foreign presence swiftly took over, laying claim to the house and husband as her territory and constantly acted to drive Endeaovur back from these borders. He learned to avoid entering the kitchen. His stepmother would glance at him briefly and snap at him not to bother her, she had too much work to do. He avoided the house as much as he could, seeking shelter in school or the local library, the view from either building unchanging and cold. He would sit as near as possible to the heater and no-one sought him here. 

His stepmother was a practical cook, and housewife; she had need to be. The family had grown bigger and Endeavour's father lost his job. It was never fully stated but Endeavour worked out from his stepmother's mutterings that he had been sacked; drinking too much, betting.  
He saw that Joycie was worried, scared really, not understanding what was happening in her family. When he could he would sit with her and talk, ask her about school and anything that wasn't touched by home. He knew he couldn't make anything better but he wished to try, to remove the drawn look from her too young face. At any sign of their forming an alliance however, his stepmother intervened, breaking them apart. So he left her with her mother and he made harsh reproaches to himself for being selfish but the shame was not strong enough for him to relinquish his hiding places and slowly the shame turned into thick bitterness that he did not know what to do with. 

His stepmother ran the household and was the only thing holding it all together through her strict measures. She was skilled at finding the cheapest joints of meat and creating dishes which would last all week. She bought vegetables for next to nothing just before they would be thrown out and she was a formidable haggler, proclaiming her opinion on how much an item was worth and the shop seller would eventually agree with her.  
She did not do any of this out of great love, Endeavour believed. She would not have it said she was incapable of keeping her affairs together and respectable, the memories of the war all too fresh in her mind.  
She divided the dinner between the four of them, with Joycie and their father receiving the largest portions. Endeavour was glad Joycie benefited from his step mother's hatred of him. He learned to adjust to how the house was run now. It became part of his routine, much in the way the library did. He trained himself to survive on what food he received. Puberty had struck however, and as he grew so did his appetite. A sense of hollowness accompanied him through the day and what little he ate seemed to sharpen his hunger and remind him of what he lacked. The mirror reflected back someone who had none of the softness of his mother. 

By the time he had left for Oxford some stability had been established at home and the strict measures imposed on household expenditure had been loosened. At this stage however, the concept of baking or even of food preparation had become alien to Morse. He would set about eating the dishes which appeared in front of him in the dining hall but was dismayed by the sheer amount of it and the unfamiliar stuffed sensation which followed its consumption. Toast. He liked toast. Since he had begun working in Oxford he added the pleasure of ale and whiskey to his daily consumption, the whiskey creating a warmth in him but not a heaviness.  
Hunger was not even something he recognised anymore, or if it did make its presence felt, he was not particularly sure what to do about it. He had long ceased to experience the dizziness and fatigue which had marked his teenage years. He avoided mirrors and somewhow did not make the connection between his absent appetite and his bony, awkward figure. 

Endeavour was tired today though. His mind was tired. He had just worked through a series of complex and involving cases and at the end of them all, there was only more paperwork. He had to plod through it somehow. He would have preferred a proper drink but he had taken Jakes' unasked for offer of tea almost gratefully. He sipped the bland liquid, wanting its heat more than anything else. The shop-made shortbread reminded him sharply of his mother's baking, how good it was in comparison to this ersatz-biscuit. 

"How's the report coming?" Jakes asked him from his perch on the table edge. 

"Slowly." Morse replied. He always found reports irritating, having to adopt the rigid style and almost mechanical tone required. Writing such laboured sentences was frustrating when he was used to chasing his thoughts and ideas as they took him and such inspirations, if he bothered to note them down, would have found a telegraph form, disparate words connected by dashes. 

"Did you have to type your essays for college?"

"No." Morse answered, wondering what dig about his poncy education was coming. 

"Good thing that." Jakes half-smirked. "Otherwise you never would have got them in on time." 

It took a moment for Endeavour to understand Jakes was slagging him about his typing and that alone, not about Oxford, not about his degree. "Oh." He went to put his fingers to his mouth but stopped himself. "Yes. I never did learn to type properly." he offered. 

"Neither did I." Jakes held his hands out in front of him, imitating the shape they would assume at a typewriter. "Apparently the trick is to learn to keep your fingers locked into place on certain home keys and to work around that." he said around his cigarette clamped between his teeth. 

"How do you know that?" Morse raised his eyebrows at Jakes. 

The other man let his hands fall back. "I used to do a line with a girl who did a lot of temp work. She could type something fierce." 

His cup of tea was almost empty. He held back from draining the last mouthful, for it would have to signal the end of the conversation. Wouldn't it? Jakes chatting to him about nothing in particular, with no awkwardness or hidden sting to his words. He had offered Morse tea and biscuits. Why? Well, perhaps, Morse considered, he was just being ordinary today. Don't get much of a chance to be ordinary in this job. They saw each other every day at their worst- a state of exhaustion, feeling contempt and revulsion for humanity and the lows criminals could find, and sometimes the police too. They saw each other frustrated, anxious, constantly rushing or just plain pissed off. So far, today had been alright. Perhaps this was what Jakes would be like on any given day, only he didn't get much of a chance to show it and Morse wasn't often in an even enough mood to be capable of not only seeing it but also responding to it.

Did he slag him then because he knew he could? It was nothing personal, Morse just happened to be the nearest thing he could take his annoyance out on. He couldn't say anything to Thursday, for obvious reasons. De Bryn would react to needling and taunting with cool sarcasm. Strange wouldn't even get it, he just didn't work that way. That left only Morse. Perhaps Jakes had alotted him that position, the person in his workplace he could afford to irritate and not have to worry about the consequences. 

Morse had to consider, grudgingly, that his own conduct could have encouraged Jakes to treat him in this manner. Morse had been just as suspicious of Jakes as Jakes had been of him. Endeavour had taken one look at the Sergeant and knew what he was going to think of himself and his Oxford education, of his taste in music, of Thursday's apparent favour. He knew this to be in Jakes' head and so had gone about pre-empting the other man's strike against him. Why should he have expected Jakes to respond with a civil tone to such barely concealed hostility? 

Perhaps Jakes did hold those opinions, and more, but they would not have been of Morse specifically. They would have been an assumption based on an accent and association. Morse could have proven him wrong. Instead he had confirmed all the prejudices Jakes held. 

Or did his hackles go up because Jakes reminded him too much of the type of bloke at college girls fell for all too often, passing over him? Eighteen year old Morse had assumed that the girls he shared classes with would be searching for, and impressed only by, like-minded fellows. Instead they were drawn to blokes like Jakes; good-looking, up for fun, full of one-liners and banter, not quotes. Morse would hang back as the girls disappeared off to the dancing clubs he never deigned to frequent. 

Morse chanced a brief examination of Jakes then, this time attempting to forget his previous knowledge and experience of him. His dark eyes were sharp but not malicious. His face was fox-like in its angles and hollows, and perhaps there was a touch of the vulpine to him and his character. There seemed to be more to that face than he had first considered. He hadn't really considered Jakes before though, had he? He had rather dismissed the Sergeant and his slicked back hair and ridiculous socks. 

The next day, before being sent out to talk to a person of interest in a newly arisen case, Morse saw Jakes, sitting at his desk, patting down his pockets and cursing to himself. On the way back from the unenlightening interview, Morse slipped into a newsagent. When he returned to the office, he placed the twenty pack of Players on Jakes' desk before going and sitting behind his own.  
Jakes made a sound which could have been interpreted as a prayer of thanks. He tore the packet open and it was only after taking a few lungfuls of smoke that he called out to Morse. "Thanks! How did you know I was gasping?" 

"I saw you going through your pockets earlier." Morse imitated Jakes's actions from before.

"Absolute gift, you have no idea. You even got the right ones and all." Jakes sounded nearly impressed and Morse was pleased with himself. 

"Although, in fairness, I'd have smoked anything you tossed at me." 

"How many do you smoke a day?" 

"How much do you drink?" 

"Fair enough." 

The mug of tea quietly became a part of the work-day routine. Jakes would be the one to make it and bring it to Morse's desk. He always scrounged up a few biscuits from somewhere; shortbread, gingernut, digestives. Morse always took a few, not because they tasted great (though he liked the sweetness). He took the biscuits because for some reason it made Jakes visibly happy. The tea lasted for five or ten minutes if they were lucky but Morse began to look forward to these breaks each day. They never talked about much. They shared complaints about work more often than not, maybe discussed their respective weekends or simply brought up some anecdote. Morse made sure Jakes was never without cigarettes and this let him feel he was earning his tea breaks. Anyone seeing them sharing biscuits and cigarettes would have believed they had been friends for years, a friendship won through working together and bickering constantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the timeline. I tried to give a sense of Morse's homelife as opposed to attempting to nail it down precisely. I looked at various timelines but it's impossible. So I'm hoping nothing is completely wrong (as it would seem I can't get it completely right either! See this post here on Morse timelines: http://bluesuburbanskies16.tumblr.com/post/50835397568/continuity-pedantry) So hopefully it doesn't irk anyone too much.


	4. Scotch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To fill the prompt: 
> 
> "...maybe a fic on what caused Morse to be afraid of blood. It said that the most common cause of necrophobia is a childhood experience… anybody got any ideas? I’d love some good head canon."
> 
> Warning: there is some gore in this.

It was a gruesome case. A woman out walking her dog early that morning had made the discovery. Now, police officers were crawling over Magdalen College's grounds.  
The girl's body lay half in the Cherwell, half on the bank. Her hair was gently billowing in the water and her lower body was covered in mud, the dirty dark colour turning into the grey-white of exposed bone and the obscene pink and yellow of muscle and fat.  
De Bryn kneeled awkwardly at her side, making his preliminary examination whilst attempting to maintain his balance. Thursday looked on, a sombre expression cloaking his face.  
The pathologist turned his head towards the inspector. "Her legs were broken, smashed below the knee."  
Jakes stood near to Thursday, his mouth set in a grimace. De Bryn continued as neutrally as possible. "She has defensive wounds on her hands..." He left unsaid how futile any act of defence would have been with such destroyed limbs.  
"Cause of death?" Thursday asked, hardly moving his lips.  
"You'll have to wait for the post-mortem before I can give you a final verdict on that."  
"Drowning?"  
"Highly likely."  
Thursday continued to stand over the girl. "So. What do we think?"  
Jakes took a moment to speak, his eyes locked on the girl's mangled body. "Could have been lured to the woods by someone she knew, or a random attack?"  
Thursday nodded. "Broke her legs first, wanted to torture her, play with her." Jakes pointed to where the girl's clothes and underwear had been torn off. "And then raped her and left her here, just walked off." He could not disguise the disgust at the murderer's brutal actions.  
"Right..." Thursday began listing off what needed to be done, Jakes nodding at each task. When the inspector had finished and gone, Jakes finally allowed himself to turn his back on the poor girl and he moved towards Morse.  
Morse had arrived at the crime scene with the others, had one searing glimpse of the remains and had decided it would be best to sit down somewhere in a pre-emptive strike against his own body. 

Jakes looked down at Morse. "You do like being dramatic, don't you?" 

Morse glared at him. 

"Did you hear everything that was said or do I have to repeat it all to you?" 

The glare intensified. "I heard it perfectly clearly and I could've come to the same conclusions without having heard it." 

"Ah, you must be feeling better if you're getting yourself so twisted up." 

Jakes extended his hand to Morse. He continued glaring for a moment but accepted the assistence offered. 

The case progressed over the coming days. They had a prime suspect, one Tom Butler, recently released from prison. It was a matter of proving him the perpetrator and this was difficult, if not nigh on impossible. He was a slippery and clever character.  
Jakes was bone weary and though he didn't want to admit, was unable to stop picturing the poor girl. He just wanted to leave here and escape that for a while.  
Morse was also there, still working past 11 o'clock at night, reading and rereading statements of those they had managed to interview. His desk was a riot of paper, with a map of Magdalen College visible which Morse was currently hunched over, his fingertips placed at varying spots, measuring distances, considering routes, entries and exits. Jakes observed the other man for a moment, almost smiling at his bloody intensity over the map. He then noticed the fine lines already tracing their path around Morse's eyes. He was still much too pale. He knew Morse had gone off earlier for fear of fainting again. Fainting, that was to do with blood pressure or sugar in the body, something like that? He looked in desperate need of some sugar but Jakes was aware that the git would continue to sit here, poring over his maps and statements until the small hours. 

"I'm going to pack it in now I think." 

Morse nodded vaguely without even glancing up. Jakes rolled his eyes up to heaven, wishing Morse could somehow have developed a sixth sense for when he was getting on his tits, he did it often enough. It would at least poke him into tearing his gaze away from the maps. 

Morse finally sat back in his chair and brought his right hand to the nape of his neck and began rubbing the knotted muscles there. 

"You look like you could do with a drink." Jakes said. 

Morse cocked his head at the clock mounted on the wall. "Pubs will all be closed." 

Jakes shrugged. "Come over to mine. I have scotch." 

If he couldn't get the stubborn git to at least have some whiskey (there was sugar in that wasn't there? Anyway, it would at least put some colour into that grey face.), well, if he couldn't manage that then there was no hope.  
Morse halted his hand and Jakes felt the force of the constable's eyes directed at him, probing, assessing, calculating. Is this what his interviews are like? Bloody hell. 

Jakes let out a sigh. "Have you had any better offers tonight?"

He was subjected to one final examination and Morse seemed to have decided something for himself before nodding. "No, I haven't actually." 

He stood up, pushing the papers away from himself as he did so. Jakes smoked a cigarette while waiting for Morse to clear his desk and put on his coat. 

The two walked through the near empty Oxford street. The night was chilly; though it was April a wintry feel remained. Morse shivered as they made their way to Jakes's bedsit. 

"I know, it is a bit creepy. But no need to be scared." Jakes drawled. Sometimes he found he made these comments mechanically. Once you got into the habit of slagging someone off it was hard to stop your every answer being sarcastic.  
Morse's mouth turned down slightly but the remark elicited no further response.  
"They do say that Oxford is haunted though, by a bunch of ghosts. There were so many violent and unnatural deaths it's easy to imagine I suppose."

"Do you believe in all that?" 

Jakes hummed. "I don't believe in the ghosts, as actual proper ghosts. But the stories are horrible enough, and the stories have hung around long enough to make them somewhat convincing." 

They reached his small flat and once inside, Jakes collected two glasses for the scotch and he poured a generous amount into each one. He saw Morse examining the label. 

"Springbank." The scotch had a particularly dark smoky taste which Jakes liked. 

"Cheers." He raised his glass, waiting for Morse to respond. The other man touched his glass against Jakes' before bringing the scotch to his lips and swallowing deeply. Morse was openly examining Jakes' flat, casting his eyes over its contents.  
Maybe it had been a ridiculous idea to try have a drink with him. So what if things had improved between them at work? Maintaining a civil tongue meant nothing. Perhaps this optimistic idea of a friendly drink outside of work was too much.  
Morse was flicking through his LP collection, casual as you please. He had a non-plussed look on his face. 

"You really are hopeless, aren't you?" Jakes held a mouthful of the scotch on his tongue before letting it slowly drip down his throat. 

Morse shook off the remark as if it were only a minor irritant. He had an almost smile on his face. 

"Maybe I am. But are any of them worth listening to?" 

Ha. A challenge. One Jakes was more than willing to accept. He moved over to beside Morse and cast his eye over the selection, trying to imagine, what if any of the music he could possibly like. He skipped over The Beatles records and even the Beach Boys, though he thought Morse would like the harmony. Still, it would be too bloody cheerful and Californian for him. Morse wanted darkness and dramatics. He picked out a Dusty Springfield record and put it on. Her strong lonely voice filled the flat. Jakes liked Dusty and on nights when he could be out but didn't wish to be, he would sit here and listen to her.  
Morse didn't seem to mind the music but Jakes knew this only meant he merely didn't dislike it. He had the expression of someone who was following the steps in some how-to manual, focussed only on how the song was put together and nothing beyond that.  
He poured another measure of the Springbank into their glasses and put on a Jacques Brel record. That did get a reaction from Morse. 

"You speak French?" 

"No." Jakes scoffed. "But I don't need to."

"Oh?" 

"Well, do you need to be able to speak Italian to understand what those fat birds are wailing about?" Jakes raised an eyebrow. "Even if you know the story and maybe certain words, don't try convince me you understand every word they're singing." 

Morse merely drank; it was assent enough for Jakes. 

"It's the same for me. I don't need to know exactly what he's saying. I can hear it from the song, from his voice." 

The glasses needed to be refilled. God, he had been in desperate need of a drink. He handed Morse the bottle so he could take care of that whilst he chose another record.  
Scott Walker's profound baritone emerged from the record player, set against an even deeper bass line. Jakes often found it incredible to imagine a person, just a person, actually having such a voice.  
They were sitting on the floor, their backs against the wall, the record player across from them. A wonderful lassitude filled Jakes, a combination of being exhausted from work and combined with the scotch and music.  
He had finally hit upon the right singer for Morse. Of course, Scott Walker. (Well, it was the Walker Brothers really, but everyone knew Scott was the one who counted. He was the only one with that voice.) Scott Walker, with his love of Swedish arty films, French singers, philosophy and Greek myths. Made for Oxford students.  
Morse was properly listening to this record. His eyes were half-closed, unfocussed, his hands loosely holding onto his glass. Jakes lit another cigarette as the record came to an end.

"So," he began, speaking around the fag in his mouth. "Are you just really petrified of blood or what?" 

Morse started; thankfully his glass was empty. He quickly fixed that unacceptable state of affairs. 

"I mean, with the bodies. Can you not stand the sight of blood?" 

Morse examined the scotch bottle, assessing how much remained. His head was pleasantly fuzzy, blurred softly, in the style of an Impressionist painting, swirls and shade lending reality to images. Smoke hung in the room, furthering the sense of blurred edges. It was warm and he had a lowly burning heat in him thanks to the combination of scotch and no food. He allowed his eyes to slip further closed and he saw the splintered legs of the murder victim. 

"You probably won't be too shocked to be told I didn't have that many friends as a child." Morse began. 

When he did find one, at the age of six, Endeavour was not going to let this hard won prize slip away. Tommy lived three doors down the street. They didn't go to the same school, but Tommy had approached him one day outside his house, asking him if he wanted to play.  
They played explorers, scrambling through neighbour's backgardens, running through the park, or when it rained, staying in and poring over brightly illustrated history books, looking at the pictures and imagining what the colonies Britain ruled over were really like.  
It was fun and a mere fantasy which Endeavour forgot about as soon as Tommy went home for tea. He didn't really want to go to any of those places. The only reason Tommy wanted to go was for the sheer excitement. He would have gone anywhere that was not his own town. 

One late and humid August afternoon, with the return to school as yet an unreal threat on the horizon, he and Tommy were stamping around the local park, seeing what surprises it could still yield up.  
Endeavour heard an unfamiliar crying noise, almost a mewling, but this was not a cat. 

"Do you hear that?" he asked. 

"Hear what?" His companion strode on oblivious. 

Endeavour followed the direction of the crying and lying in the grass, he found a hare. It was sick- it writhed around on the earth, its hind legs kicking jaggedly, powerlessly. Its eyes were streaming blood, soft and swollen, as if they would pop at any moment and weep rivers of thick, pink liquid. Dirty black stains caked its hindquarters.  
Tommy had come back to stand beside Endeavour. 

"It's sick. Very sick." Tommy pronounced. The other boy nodded. "My mam says it's cruel for animals to live like that when they're sick. We should kill it. To be kind." 

"Are you sure?" Endeavour asked. That had been the wrong question. 

"Of course I am!" Tommy snapped back. "You have to break its neck."

"I don't want to." He whispered. 

"I know you won't." Tommy shouted. "I'm going to do it!"

He approached the hare. He considered it for a moment before picking it up. It continued to struggle and kick out though held securely in Tommy's grip. He did have the right idea about how to snap the creature's neck, but he was not strong enough to execute it properly. He held the animal and drove his knee towards its neck whilst simultaneously pulling the head and back towards himself. There was a half snapping noise and then Tommy dropped it to the ground. He had cracked the animal at the chest and not the neck, having applied pressure in the wrong place. Blood spurted stickily from the gashes torn open by its own broken bones, protuding spikily. 

"Tommy Higgins." came a voice from behind them and Endeavour wanted to cry. It was his own mother. 

Tommy looked at her and ran away. She made no move to chase him. Endeavour continued to watch the hare, blood coating its fur now, a purplish red covering over its natural greyish tinge.  


Constance Morse focussed only on the hare. She bent down and took the pitiful creature between her hands. It still moved, wildly now, each movement bringing about further bleeding and sending the torn and exposed limbs flailing. She repeated Tommy's action but was more successful. She bent down and placed the heap carefully on the ground. Her hands were covered in blood, as was her apron. The hare's eyes had bled mightily and two thick tracks coursed down from the eye sockets. Flies were gathering already in the August heat. She took her son's hand and he felt the blood tackily coating his palm.  


That night he had nightmares, awful visions of waking up with his limbs in a tangle and having to attempt to undo the knot of bone and muscle on his own, as his blood drained out of the wounds. He woke crying and that was the one time his mother had not come to him when he called out for her.  
  


When Morse finished speaking, the room was very quiet indeed. He raised his glass and drank; suddenly:  


"I've never told anyone that before." He half-shrugged to himself, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin there, wrapping his left arm around his calves and holding his glass in the other.  


"Christ." Jakes finally managed to say. He had thought that perhaps Morse had had to do an autopsy on some animal in biology class and had discovered his aversion that way. But that...that was awful. He was always amazed at the cruelty of children, happy to destroy, to pull the wings off flies and the legs off spiders.  


"I don't know. I've just never been able to look at the bodies without feeling nauseous. Or passing out." Morse was attempting to come off as self-deprecating. "I am aware of course that a hare is no comparison to a human victim. But still."  


Jakes looked at Morse's pinched face. Did he really believe, still believe, that after these past few months, that Jakes would ridicule him for admitting this story to him? He knew he couldn't state this directly. It would only make Morse more defensive. 

He experienced a sudden irrational urge to make Morse feel better, by placing the knuckles of his hand gently against his cheek. The moment passed and instead he said:  


"I remember the first autopsy I was at. Fucking awful. Some geezer who's gone on a drinking binge, got in a fight and got himself stabbed. So, wasn't a prize speciman by any means. But when they cut him open and began handling his organs..." Jakes fumbled for the words, aware of how Morse's gaze had turned to him as he spoke.  


"It was so wrong. I felt then that death wasn't absence of pain but absence of being able to feel it. Does that make sense?" He met Morse's eyes. "Being cut up like that, it should cause pain, right? And seeing his face so...calm as his insides were torn out...the body was just a shell left behind and it was creepy. Afterwards I went into the bathroom and I...bit down on the inside of my wrist as hard as I could just so I knew I wasn't the corpse." He trailed off, his eyes moving from side to side, unable to settle.  


"Are you scared of death, Sergeant?" Morse asked, a thickness dulling his voice. He was nearly asleep.  


Jakes considered the question for a moment. "No." He said, removing the glass from Morse's hands, encountering only minimum resistance.  


"It's just that I'm not ready for it yet. I know one day I will be ready to die and that will be alright. And all I can ask for is that I get to live until I reach that point." Jakes picked up the bottle of Springbank. "How about you?"  


Morse shook his head. "I'm not scared of dying either." His voice became softer and less distinct. "But...I am scared of dying alone."  


That unbidden instinct to press his fingers to the young man's cheek flickered back and disappeared once again.  


"You stupid sod, would you ever get up and at least have the decency to pass out on my couch?" Jakes muttered at the prone figure. He threw a spare blanket at Morse as he slowly heaved himself off the floor and onto the couch. 

Jakes readied himself for bed, and glanced over once more at Morse and shook his head, half cursing and laughing to himself.


	5. The White Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The current murder case is taking its toll on Morse and Jakes suggests they get out of Oxford for the day...

Morse had woken up that following morning with no immediate sense of where he was. His lips were tackily gummed together and the taste of whiskey remained in the back of his throat. An unfamiliar smell, of hair cream and cigarettes hung in his head. The source of this scent stood over him, a cup of tea in each hand, appearing only marginally less rough than Morse himself felt.  
He had sat up gingerly and accepted the tea, bending his head over the cup, attempting to gather his thoughts and orient himself. He feared his face would flush red as he recalled what he and Jakes had spoken about. It had made such perfect sense to reveal the incident of the hare to the other man and then to continue discussing death.  
Jakes lingered over his cigarette, most likely not his first of the morning. Morse became more monosyllabic; he did not trust himself to talk. He worried he could have said other things last night which he could not remember and would lay him open to ridicule from Jakes in the harsh light of day, the crass world of the police station.  
He had quickly made his excuses to leave, citing the very real and pressing reason of needing to return to his own bedsit and change before being able to present himself at Thursday's. Jakes had merely nodded, a micro-smile quirking his mouth. 

 

The coming weeks saw Morse retreating further and further into himself, though he himself seemed unaware of his actions. The cause of this was the continuing difficulties in bringing about an arrest for the murder they were currently working on. No matter how Morse attacked the issue he could not penetrate Tom Butler's armour. No evidence stuck, no strategy succeeded and the man continued to scarcely conceal his disdain for the police. Morse stayed on later than ever before, seeking any new method of establishing the undeniable trail of clues which would lead to the answer and the answer was Tom Butler.  
Jakes observed Morse, surreptitiously craning his head as he passed his desk, attempting to decipher the notes the other man scrawled for himself. Some ideas were of genuine merit and Jakes would assist him in making more concrete these barest slips of thought. No matter how valiently Morse tried he could not get these avenues to yield up anything.  
The case was brought to an abrupt halt when they learnt of how Butler had managed to flee to the Netherlands. Morse had stared at Strange, the unfortunate bearer of this news, had simply stared, his mouth open, his large eyes scarcely blinking. Jakes, sighing, had begun to pack up all the documents pertaining to the case, seeking to focus on the papers and setting them in order, hoping to blot out the thought of the girl and no-one to answer for brutally taking her life.  
It took Jakes only a few days to work out that Morse was not even making such an attempt to go onto the next case but was continuing to write little notes to himself about anything that could be done to net the culprit.  
After some days of watching this behaviour, Jakes decided it was time to do something about it. During one of their regular tea breaks, when Morse seemed particularly distracted (or exhausted, he wasn't sure which), Jakes had asked him- 

"How about we get out of Oxford for the day this weekend?" 

Morse looked up at him, confusion lining his brow and wrinkling his nose. He said nothing, waiting for the other man to continue and explain himself. 

"We could just get on the train, get out of this police station for a day. Something, anything different." 

"Well, why don't you just go to the cinema or out dancing or something like that?" 

Jakes gave a slight "hmph". "You know, when it comes to matters outside of detective work you're not particularly inspired, are you?" 

Morse began to smile in response but very quickly schooled his features into something vaguely irritated. 

"Christ, if I say we'll go to a pub outside of Oxford would that hold any interest for you?" 

Morse rested his chin in the palm of his left hand and raised his eyebrows at Jakes. 

"Depends on what ale they have." 

 

Morse was somewhat reluctant to leave the comforting surrounds of the country pub they had happened upon. It was an unremarkable pub, quiet and muted in colour. Yet he found himself almost fearing that stepping outside of it would break this easy comraderie he and Jakes were enjoying over their pints. Morse was beginning to understand why others would like Jakes- when not sniping and making arch remarks, he was very easy to talk to, carrying the burden of the conversation lightly, discoursing on inconsequential things. Morse knew he himself was incapable of such fluid patter and so had never sought to cultivate it. He found it pleasant to sit there, nursing his ale undisturbed and listening to Jakes.  
That morning Morse had found himself standing at the train station and asking himself why he was even there, why he was considering travelling up to Uffington with Jakes for the day. Perhaps it was the mere fact that the Sergeant was becoming a familiar figure to him and Morse liked to surround himself with that which was familiar, what was known and unsurprising, the same way he listened to his favourite records over and over or learnt large chunks of poetry by heart. Jakes was becoming a familiar figure and he had to allow himself the briefest of smiles when he found himself welcoming the appearance of Jakes on the platform.  
The train journey had been short and uneventful. Their first action on arrival had been to duck into the nearest pub. Late afternoon found them there still and as Morse drained his pint, he noticed the change in the sun, the light becoming heavier, thicker.  
Jakes knocked back the end of his own drink and jerked his head toward the door. Morse followed and as they pulled away from the pub, they began ascending a gentle incline. As they continued upwards, Morse turned to look back every so often, at how the English countryside unfolded below him; dark green fields broken only by the train track cutting its path between them. 

"Where are we going?" Morse asked. 

"Haven't you heard of the White Horse of Uffington?" Jakes responded. 

Morse shook his head. "Should I have?" 

"It's only a few miles away from your beloved Oxford. I thought you would have." 

Morse did not feel the need to explain to Jakes just how small his beloved Oxford was and that most of what was outside of it was a mere hazy concept. 

"What is the White Horse then?" Morse wondered if it had any connection with the pub in Oxford of the same name.

"It's easier to explain it when you can see it." 

They continued on, not saying much, Morse being slightly needled at Jakes' secret knowledge about this secret place. They crested a hill and pointing off into the distance, Jakes said, "There it is."  
Morse looked and for a few moments could discern nothing. Then, slowly emerging a line and a stroke at a time, a blazing white shape became visible on a further hill. 

"That's...the White Horse?" Morse turned to Jakes for confirmation. They began walking towards it. 

"It's this drawing, or etching, I don't know what to call it, that was made with layers and layers of lime in the ground. It's been here for thousands of years." Jakes raised his hands; he made a long, sweeping gesture with his left hand, adding a further shorter arch with his right and then provided a few more staccato lines. "It's the outline of the horse. Amazing, isn't it?" 

Morse took a sideways glance at Jakes to check he was indeed being serious. He still found himself unsure of his sincerity quite often. But now he truly appeared enthusiastic and admiring of this ancient sight.  
They had reached the horse and Morse walked slowly around the white lines, getting more of a sense of the outline and shape. 

"I can't get a full view of it." 

"The only complete view is miles and miles away. Or from up in the sky." 

"But how could they make it then? These people...they wouldn't have been able to fully see what they were doing or to check if the proportions were right."

"Well, it's a mystery." Jakes said and scrutinising the ground before spreading out his jacket, he sat down. Morse noted Jakes' hesitance before sitting on the grass. Though not in his work suit, he was still rather spiffily dressed, in a black jumper and grey terylene trousers, well-fitting. Morse generally gave scant consideration to the clothes he pulled on each day, yet working with Jakes often prodded him into awareness of just how hastily assembled and patchwork he appeared in comparison to this sleek specimen. He wondered how Jakes knew how to find clothes which would fit and which looked nice. Did you just know or did you learn? It wasn't as if he was ever going to ask him.  
Morse paused a moment before clumsily taking up position near him. Jakes put his hand into his pocket and retrieved a small flagon of whiskey. He uncapped it, swigged from it and then passed it to Morse. 

"What is it though?" He handed the whiskey back. "What is it for?" 

Jakes shook his head. "No idea. There are theories that it's a sort of territorial marking. You know, this is the land of the horse people, something like that."

"Perhaps it's some pagan god?" 

"Epona." Jakes stated. "Celtic horse god of healing, death and fertility." Jakes stopped with the whiskey bottle at his lips. "What? What?"

Morse couldn't stop a light smile. "It just sounds more like something I'd tend to say." 

Jakes rolled his eyes at him. "You're not the only one who knows things. My parents would take me and my sisters out to places like this every weekend, regular as anything. We saw every museum and historical sight going." 

Morse drank more of the whiskey and in a moment had a vision of what Jakes' childhood had been- perhaps not unlike that of the Thursday Family. He could easily picture a young Jakes and his family piled into the car on Saturdays. There would be packed sandwiches and flasks of tea which his mother had prepared. He imagined what Jakes' mother was like; a firey petite woman, also dark in colouring, someone who was born to be a mother and was so proud of her children, loving too, but not softly so. She wanted them to have a better chance than she had had (not that she wasn't content). The images flickered in Morse's mind, of this lady helping her children with their homework, looking up the free entry days to museums and tramping off there with her family in tow, wanting to invest knowledge and interest in them.  
Morse looked at Jakes as he shook another cigarette from his pack. It would take a family like that to produce this almost over-confident character. 

"I'd say your family are really proud about you being a Sergeant." 

Jakes gave Morse a slightly wary once-over and then nodded before cupping his hands around his cigarette and lighting it. He inhaled deeply, hollowing his cheeks further as he did so. 

"They are. My mum especially. She was always on at me in school. She is as chuffed as anything. She tells all the neighbours. Delighted. Never stops telling me. I think she finds it almost glamourous or something to have a member of the police in the family. Well, I mean, I'm sure yours are too? Oh hell, I meant..."  
Morse turned his gaze away as Jakes stumbled over his words, clearly only now remembering his family situation. Morse quirked up his mouth and half shook his head yet made no other gesture to set Jakes at his ease. 

"The weekend trips were nice, though I probably wouldn't have admitted that when I was a snotty teenager." Jakes abruptly returned to their previous topic. "I liked learning all that, the dates and timelines, who had been in the city before us. I sort of believed that knowing so much about where I lived made me...more a part of it, like I had earned my right to wander all over it and call it my own." Jakes half snorted to himself, catching the quizzical expression Morse had been unable to cover. He was beginning to find it easy to read Morse's face. "So what if that sentiment sounds more gown than town? It's my city too." 

"I don't think of it as my city just because I was in college there." Morse slowly got out, unsure how to explain or if to at all attempt to explain to Jakes that at most, he had returned to Oxford because nowhere else was home, that in a way he had been sentenced to exile within Oxford's walls as punishment. During very long nights he indulged himself in the conviction that he was being punished for having been happy. He was to remain where he had been so briefly happy, to be reminded of it and how it had already passed and the moment would never return. 

"I never intended to come back." he said instead. "I thought I was finished with Oxford. I don't believe I'll ever stride through it, feeling it to be somehow mine. I'd be content to imagine a small part of it is mine, some corner I can carve out and furnish for myself. I don't particularly want more than that."

Evening continued to creep over the hills and Morse and Jakes continued to talk. The whiskey had been emptied some time ago, leaving Morse almost limp in how gently unwound his body felt, and to some extent his mind. Briefly a reminder of the unfinished murder case chased across his thoughts but he let it go once more. It was wonderful to have had some time without the reproach of that particular case.  
He was lying on his back, his limbs sprawled out in front of him, one arm resting lightly across his stomach, the other folded behind his head. He was not certain how long they had been here for or how long more they would remain or whether they should or had to leave soon. He didn't particularly want to move. He allowed his eyes to close when they wanted to and he drifted in and out of the conversation. Jakes lay on his side, turned towards Morse, his right arm propping up his head. Even in repose Jakes was all sharp lines and angles- the bend of his elbow, the length of his legs, the narrowness of his body, his face.  
They had returned to talking about the White Horse. 

"There's a superstition," Jakes began. "That if a woman spends a night sleeping in the eye of the horse, she'll get pregnant." 

The sun hung low in the sky, almost disappeared. Hues of gold, tinted deepest brown and yellow played out on this palette and changed the taste of the light and the land. To Morse it seemed warm and very ancient all at once, how he had imagined God when he was younger and still had faith. 

He smiled. "I'm certain such theories bring a certain element around here at night."

He could easily picture couplings taking place on the horse under this light. He sighed deeply, contentedly. And scarcely wishing it, he perceived a shifting in his companion's pose and then experienced his mouth on his own. Morse lay unmoving under him as Jakes pressed his lips to his with greater intensity before Morse yielded and gave him entry to his mouth. Their tongues tipped against each other, staccato at first before finding a comfortable pace. Morse felt as if his entire body was being lapped and lathed at, sipped and tasted. Jakes had eased himself on top of him and hazily he thought Jakes was now tonguing him from the hips as their bodies met and sought contact in this place particularly. He sighed into Jakes' mouth and urged himself closer to him, arching up to this unexpected heat and strength. He inhaled a scent of whiskey and smoke, grass and earth, and was dimly aware of the darkening of the sky and of the mournful sound of the train passing in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, this is the White Horse of Uffington. 
> 
> http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/48/Uffington-White-Horse-sat.jpg
> 
> I was quite heavily inspired by a scene from "This is All" by Aidan Chambers, which also features the White Horse. I cannot recommend the book enough, it's a wonderful novel.


	6. The Chess Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Walk, then come,  
> No longer numb  
> Into your satisfaction."
> 
> W. H. Auden, "Underneath an Abject Willow".

Morse sat at his desk, fiercely focussing on the report he was in the process of typing. Typing, on a good day, presented him with a challenge. That Monday morning, it appeared a task he could only surmount by channelling all his mental and physical energies into hitting the correct keys and seeking to establish some semblance of rhythm and pace. The words themselves scarcely revealed their meaning to him; he was merely typing a succession of letters in an odd pattern. 

He had to attend so utterly and single-mindedly to this mechanical work for if he let his mind slip its leash he found himself desperately craving a drink. He had never experienced the need this early in the day before. He wished he had got plastered on decent whiskey last night. If he couldn't have a drink in the morning, he would have at least found the day easier to cope with under the deadening influence of a hangover. 

He was an instrument that had been restrung too tight, ready to vibrate or break at any disturbance or touch. He was the opposite to what he had been on Saturday; unwound and perhaps even, for one of the few times in his life, mellow. He was certain the whiskey had played a role in this for even after he and Jakes had pulled apart, the contendeness he had experienced continued, his mind shut off from any other concerns or worries. This sensation had accompanied him on the train journey back to Oxford. It was as if the edges had been removed from everything. He was a bee drunk on honey, stingless. He had no questions. It had been enough to sit across from Jakes on the train and glance at him every so often. A heat seemed to gather up and break gently upon some shore in him, sending a pleasant warmth through him. They spoke very little which Morse didn't particularly mind, finding it almost too much of an effort to rouse himself from this near sensual drowsiness. 

After alighting from the train, Jakes had, unasked, accompanied Morse back to his bedsit. It was only when Morse opened the front door that Jakes had pushed him inside and briefly kissed him, catching his lower lip and touching his chin with the tip of his thumb and forefinger. After a murmured "See you on Monday", Jakes was gone. 

 

He had woken the next morning with the all too familiar taste of whiskey at the back of his throat and the smell of cigarettes stalely set into his clothes which he had not bothered to remove before sinking into his bed.  
He had washed up and shaved before spending the rest of the day sitting in his room, listening to "Orfeo ed Euridice". He played "Vieni, appaga il tuco consorte", his preferred piece from the opera, several times over, brooding on Orfeo letting go of Euridice's hand, refusing to look at her or explain, explain that he could not see her until safely out of the underworld or she would die once again. He played the record as loud as he dared, for he needed to have the opera surround him, to be surrounded by the longing of Orfeo to reach out and touch Euridice in paradise. 

What had happened yesterday? Well, he'd been kissed and he'd kissed back and quite enjoyed it. Thinking of the White Horse and Jakes' mouth on his sent him into a reverie, and he went through the scene again in his head. He came back to himself. Jakes had most certainly initiated the kiss, he had made a deliberate move to kiss him. 

But he had been silently hoping for such a gesture, hadn't he? He could not say when this desire had come about and furthermore, he could not remember when he had begun to consider it as a possibility. However, he had lain stretched out beside Jakes, his body simply waiting. It had made such sense at the time. The moment had been calling out for a kiss and he wanted Jakes to complete the scene. 

Morse was sitting on the floor, his back up against the bed. He pulled his knees up to his chest and fisted his hands in his hair. This was an alien feeling in him. Confused memories came back to him, from school and home, of being too young to understand those strange words which were spat out by his father and whispered by his schoolmates. He had slowly worked out what was being talked about, being too furiously embarassed at not knowing to allow himself to ask anyone. He had never liked the words, even before he had learnt what they meant. For Endeavour, an ugly word could only describe an equally ugly concept and in this case he wasn't altogether sure if such words should be used. 

He had not had great cause to think on the subject too deeply. He knew what the ugly words described- men who acted like women and flapped their hands, or burly shaven headed specimens, tattooed and with their mind trained on one thing only. Yet these bogeymen, these unnatural inverts he heard about never materialised in his day to day reality. He had gone up to Oxford and at any of the parties he had gone to, he had never encountered these ghouls. He had certainly met people who had elements of these caricatures in them, but nothing more. The stories and ugly words seemed so far removed from the beautiful love and palpable longing described in the Greek classics he was now studying and also evident in the poetry of Housman and Auden. If two men did love each other, that was how he would imagine it to be. And since in these same lines he too had found solace for his own romantic yearnings, then the different relationships couldn't be altogether that different. But still he had had to endure his father warning him against hanging around Catholics because they were "sodomites, the lot of them." He had only been slightly startled when he had realised that one man he had met at a student party was more interested in Endeavour than opera (which had been their initial topic of conversation). He had explained, tried to, to the other man that he was so sorry but he just didn't...He had been so flustered and worried, knowing how awful it was to be summarily turned down by someone, having had it happen to himself so many times. What had he meant though? He didn't...what? 

Why was he worried about the theory and words behind it? What he should be worried about was Jakes. What if this was all an elaborate joke that he and his friends had been working on? Feeding him out on a line, having Jakes fake a friendship- that in itself would have been funny enough. He could picture them all too easily laughing over the story about the hare and at Morse's arrogance in trusting Peter Jakes. Had they egged him on, see if you can prove that the constable who listens to opera really is a poof? 

Morse recognised himself how bitter he was becoming. The music wasn't helping. He changed the record to Debussy and moved to his small window and looked out of it, unseeing. 

Was it so very hard for him to accept that Jakes may have done something just because he wanted to? He could be an arrogant bastard but he was direct. He also looked out for the interests of number one, every time. Morse couldn't see Jakes inconveniencing himself too greatly even if the end result would be to take Morse down a peg or two (or four). Morse got as far as this and couldn't make any further sense of the situation. He had become so accustomed to the world of crosswords where clues, though convoluted, led to answers. The world of policing was not dissimiliar- though crimes came out of irrational human drives, these could be logically reconstructed. He was at a loss now and chafed at the sense of helplessness which stuck to him. 

 

And so Morse found himself determinedly typing that Monday morning. He hunched over his typewriter and sought to tune out the unceasing noise of the police station around him.  
A file was thrown down in front of him, landing crash bang on his still typing fingers. Morse jerked up, bewildered and pissed off and encountered Jakes standing above him. 

"Murder. Right up your street. Body was found at his home beside a chess game." 

"I don't play chess." Morse responded, non-plussed. 

"You look like someone who plays chess." Jakes smirked as Morse attempted to put the loose sheets from the file back together. 

"We need you to go along- to determine whether the chess board is just a chess board and can be discounted or whether it's hiding secret messages from us. You know, does the final chess move tell us who the murderer is. The usual." 

Morse could hardly stop himself from curling his lip at Jakes. It was only when the other man was absent that he was able to pause and realise that Jakes had been no different to how he always was. Perhaps the kiss had been some inexplicable one-off, a gesture never to come again. Morse would not be surprised by that; he was all too accustomed to briefly flickering attractions which crashed into one another and then hastily scrambled to disentangle themselves once more. He got to his feet, pulling on his coat and heading out to follow up on what Jakes had directed him to. 

 

The chess game murder was unfortunately a brutal open and shut case. It had been solved in a mere handful of days. Morse shook his head and muttered to himself "Killed for moving the wrong chess piece." He continued walking back to his bedsit. The two men, apparently friends for some time, had been playing a game of chess and the victim had made a mistake in play which he had instantly apologised for. His partner however, had been unforgiving and swift in his judgement. The crime scene Morse had been greeted by was chaotic, the work of a madman. De Bryn confirmed as much. 

"An absolute frenzy of blows killed him, well, one of them. He attacked his face beyond being able to apply that word to it any more." 

They had found the chess player sitting on a wall across the road, still wearing his blood splattered clothes, his hands and face marked with red too. It was a senseless act and to find the culprit waiting so calmly made it lose further comprehensibility. Endeavour could understand passion, hate, revenge- but a sheer uncontrollable rage lacking any real motivation was something he would never be able to accept. 

His bedsit came into view, as did the outline of Peter Jakes leaning up against the wall, the inevitable cigarette smoke drifting above his head. Morse slowed his pace slightly. He wouldn't deny to himself that the dark head bent over the glowing cigarette was a welcome one. Jakes saw Morse approaching and simply watched him, making no sign of greeting until they were standing together. Morse hesitated, key in hand. 

"Did...did you want to come in?" 

Jakes nodded, taking one last drag on his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and stamping on it. He followed Morse up the stairs and once the door closed behind them, Jakes put his arm around the younger man's waist and pulled him against him. Jakes looked at him for what seemed too long and Morse ducked his head from this examination. He startled as Jakes kissed his neck, trailing a line up along his jaw, raising his other hand to undo Morse's shirt buttons. He turned his head, seeking Jakes' mouth. Endeavour had one fleeting moment of sheer panic as the thought "What in God's name do you think you're doing?" seared through his mind. It was gone as soon as it came, and as Jakes continued to thoroughly conquer his mouth and slowly back him up towards the narrow bed, it was replaced by the muted recognition that this was how things would be- not from now on, but at the very least, for now.


	7. A Sleepless Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know you hate not knowing something." Jakes said and left the thought unspoken: But you hate even more if someone knows that you don't know.

The bedsit was badly lit, casting irregular shadows shot through with muted light. Peter Jakes was preoccupied with undoing the remaining buttons on Morse's shirt. He had absolutely no intention of rushing this and throwing him on the bed for a quick shag. He sensed that this was almost what Morse wanted; he wished for the entire experience to be taken out of his hands and to have it all happen so quickly that he would nearly be unsure as to how the situation had come about. 

Jakes eased his hand inside of Morse's opened shirt and gently ran his palm over his concave stomach, up to his chest and began running a thumb across his collarbone and back up to his neck. Peter had always delighted in the human form, its sheer undeniable physicality. It didn't have to be a complicated act that the body was engaged in for it to win his admiration. He himself was aware of the power in how someone looked when simply lighting a cigarette and putting it to their lips. He would admit to enjoying his own body, being in it and its effect. 

He continued to stroke exploratory lines down the other man's chest as he kissed his mouth languidly, liquidly. He felt Morse chafing under these ministrations. Could he not ever relax, even now? Jakes was about to voice this thought but stopped himself. He knew what effect it would have on Morse- he would simply snail up inside the shell of himself, feeling mocked, threatened, all sorts of imagined slights registered, and that would probably be the end of the evening. 

He finally slid Morse's shirt off his shoulders, not particularly caring where the garment landed. It wasn't like it was one of his own shirts, was it? He breathed out through his nose and let his eyes rove over the newly exposed skin. Though just that bit too thin without the covering of clothes, Morse was still gorgeous to look at. His skin was blanched pale as bone, broken only by light clusters of freckles on his shoulders and arms. There was something coltish in the way he stood there, half-dressed; he was like a young thorough-bred horse, possessing fine limbs but with no idea of how to stop himself getting caught up in them or how best to deploy them. 

Morse was avoiding his eyes and Jake frowned slightly. He didn't seem to be enjoying this much. Not at all the reaction Jakes was used to. 

"Morse." Jakes said softly. "Stop thinking. I can practically hear you thinking." 

Morse moved his shoulders as if to shrug but ended up maintaining them instead in a somewhat hunched position, still neglecting to make eye contact. 

Christ, you awkward sod. And Jakes had the quiet and instant understanding that his companion was disconnected from his own body to a profound degree and didn't particularly like it much either. Jakes had already witnessed how Morse treated his body, paying no heed to it when it required food or sleep, and the times he had heedlessly run into danger, whether that involved bullets, knives or shinning up onto Oxford college roofs. He expressed a mixture of disdain and obliviousness of his own physicality. He was certain Morse would gladly be just a brain in a jar- as long as he could still drink. He thought of Morse's family situation briefly, leading him to a question he never imagined he would be considering- had no-one ever made the constable aware of his looks?  
Peter could certainly remember the oohs and aahs from his aunts and mum when he was small and then later the looks and giggles girls might throw at him, and also the appreciative appraisals he received from men in certain night clubs. 

Still- just because nobody had cared to enlighten Morse to the fact that he was quite wistfully gorgeous didn't mean he had to be the one to do so. Morse had an unshakable arrogance when it came to his intellect and his abilities as a police officer. No-one could blame Jakes for nigh on gloating over finding something the other man was insecure about. 

Jakes returned his attention to the matter at hand. He pressed his lips behind Morse's ear before murmuring- 

"You know, you're allowed to touch me." 

It was only because he was so close to Morse that he saw the tiniest of tremors dance across his lips. He decided not to pursue the roots of his reticence but instead to demonstrate to Morse just what touches he was referring to. He was well aware of the fact that his being still fully clothed and buttoned up made Morse even more awkward in his state of semi-undress. Peter raised his left hand to Morse's chin and turned his face to his. He brushed his thumb over the curve of Morse's lips. He tensed, almost jerking his head way from Jakes' touch. Peter paid no heed to this and pushed his thumb inside Morse's mouth. He enjoyed the look of bewilderment on his face- it wasn't often he saw the constable at such an utter loss. He moved the digit past his teeth, meeting only token resistance and he began to rhythmically push it in and out of his mouth, feeling the rough warm wetness of Morse's tongue against the pad of his thumb. Oh, Morse was a picture at this moment, his large grey eyes still faintly startled. His eyelids fluttered once before a light sigh escaped his lips, skittering coolly across Jakes' thumb. He reached down and grazed his knuckles over Morse's hardening length.

"Right." Jakes half-panted, releasing himself from Morse and bending over to take off his shoes. Morse followed suit and they somehow landed on the bed, Morse under Jakes. 

He found the sensation of having Jakes' entire weight pressing down on him strangely exciting and comforting at once. He felt his breath coming ever quicker and sought to regulate it without the other man noticing. Morse simply watched as Jakes raised himself up and sat back, straddling him as he swiftly divested himself of his own shirt. 

Endeavour was lost. His experiences and conquests had been hurried, furtive matters; mere minutes snatched in a bathroom at a party or down a secluded road when neither of them had a place they could retreat to. Time had been of the essence so their clothes had generally remained on, with only the most necessary of buttons unbuttoned and zips unzipped. Beauty was something he appreciated from afar, untouched and unresponding. Sex was a rush, resembling the manner in which he ate, on occasion, when alone, as if the repast placed in front of him was too good to be true and would be whipped away from him again unless he choked it down as quickly as possible.

Jakes however seemed to revel in the act, as if he could continue all night, just touching, tasting, slowly seeking what he desired. He was like a cat licking cream off the ends of his whiskers, exhausting and draining it to the last drop. Or perhaps he was more akin to a cat biffing and teasing a mouse, drawing out its death for his own entertainment. There was something feline about Jakes, Morse thought to himself. It could have been the combination of the dark sleek hair, his arched eyebrows and the elegant prowl to his long-limbed movements. 

Jakes was now undoing Morse's belt-buckle and in removing his trousers and underwear he had to shift his weight off him and stand up. He remained standing for a moment, his fingers resting on his own buckle. He cocked his head at the younger man, smiling slightly. He quickly stepped out of the remainder of his own clothes and returned to the bed, lowering himself over Morse's body. He rested his hands on Endeavour's protruding hip bones, Jakes' chest brushing against his erection. The heat generated by this flesh on flesh contact and the soft feeling of Jakes' skin rubbing against him left Endeavour in an utter state of want yet he didn't know what to ask for, or even how to. 

Jakes leaned in closer to Endeavour:

"Just to remind you again that you can touch me. I hereby grant you permission if that's what you're looking for." 

Endeavour made no move or reply. He was maddeningly aware of the solid heat of Jakes' length pressing against his thigh. Jakes moved his thumbs in small circles over the outline of his companion's hips. 

"You haven't done this before, have you? I mean, with another bloke." 

He asked the question simply and matter of factly, only wishing to know. Yet Morse found something in it and Jakes could feel him going rigid beneath him, arching away from the body seeking to connect with him. He turned his head to the side, searching for some answer or quip, anything. Jakes sighed, knowing and accepting in this moment, that no matter what came out of this night, he would never really get to know this man. 

"C'mon man. There has to be a first time for everyone in everything." 

Morse remained as he was, face averted, his eyes and mouth allowing no admittance. 

"I know you hate not knowing something." Jakes said and left the thought unspoken: But you hate even more if someone knows that you don't know. He planted a kiss on Morse's stubbornly curled mouth. He shifted down slightly and Endeavour nearly jerked upright as he felt a slick liquid heat enclosing his cock. He turned his head to take in the astonishing sight of Detective Sergeant Peter Jakes moving his lips and tongue over his length. Jakes raised his eyes to his and he broke off his ministrations to angle Morse better beneath him, tracing his finger tips along his inner thighs and bending to lap and lathe at the skin there before taking Endeavour into his mouth once more. 

Endeavour let himself fall back on the bed as a delicious warm tightness made itself felt in his crotch, the tops of his thighs, and slowly spreading through the rest of him, eventually reaching his mind. He experienced a return of the wonderful honey-drenched blurriness he had felt when riding the train back from the White Horse with Jakes. He reached out his hands instinctively, seeking the other man's head, not to urge him or press down but to merely hold and feel. He was robbed of words and worry and unaware of his own actions, his hips began to move in time with Jakes' efforts. He didn't start when Jakes' fingers brushed over his entrance but rather he let his legs fall open to welcome the attentions.  
Jakes inserted one finger into him, infinitely slowly, and Endeavour found himself gripping his muscles around the digit, which elicited a deep hum of appreciation from Peter. Morse pressed himself down against Jakes as a second finger was added. He opened his eyes and watched Jakes, his hair mussed and hanging over his face, mouth open slackly, his free hand caressing Morse's cock and balls, his eyes riveted on his own fingers pushing in and out of him. Their eyes met again and Endeavour experienced a searing need to grasp Jakes close to him, experienced a blunt want for him. Jakes must have read this in Morse's face for he added a third finger. 

"It would be best," Jakes managed to get out after a while, "for the first time, if you lay on your stomach. I know you don't think so now but this is still going to be so tight and I don't want it to be painful for you." His voice was ragged and hoarse at the edges. 

A brief return of his earlier apprehensiveness moved across Endeavour's thoughts. He however nodded his acquiescence and rolled over onto his front. He looked back over his shoulder to see Jakes spitting copiously into his hand and rubbing it onto his own cock and then slicking Morse's entrance with it. Jakes leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the back of his neck, mouthing wetly at his skin as he positioned himself carefully behind Endeavour and began to work himself inside of him. It was nothing like Morse had ever felt before. Jakes had warned him it would be tight and it was, uncomfortably so, but there was no pain and he could cope with this alien sensation. He listened to Jakes groaning and swearing over this same tightness gripping his cock. He began to move against him and this drove all coherent thought from Endeavour's mind. He was wordless, his entire existence narrowed and focused on the sensation taking over his body, tightly coiled in him, tantalizing, maddening. Jakes started to moved faster, snapping his hips against him, hitting some hitherto unknown spot in him. Endeavour gave what sounded to Peter's ears like one sharp half-sob as his orgasm over-took him, crashing over him again and again as he lay helplessly subject to Jakes' continued thrusts. Hearing and experiencing Endeavour coming brought Peter to the edge as well and his own orgasm swept through him. He collapsed beside Endeavour's still prone body and for a few moments all that could be heard was their mingled breathing. Endeavour lay there, spent, his climax having whited out everything in his body and mind. It was as if he were suspended in some strange peaceful nothingness. Peter shifted slightly and pressed himself up against Endeavour's back. 

The uncomfortable sleeping arrangement prevented Morse from falling into the deep sleep which beckoned to him. He felt as if he had to remain as he was due to Jakes pushed up against him. He tried to move as unnoticeably as possible as he sought a position in the too narrow bed where there was space enough for both of them. He became unpleasantly aware of Jakes' come leaking down between his legs, cooling there tackily. Sleep continued to elude him for the remainder of the night. Morse was well accustomed to such bouts of insomnia. It was however a new experience to have someone asleep beside him as he lay there, restless until morning.


	8. The Choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You would have been a terrible Oxford don." Jakes said. 
> 
> "Thanks a lot."

Close to dawn Morse had succumbed to a fitful sleep, a doze lasting scarcely more than an hour. He shook off the last remnants of the night and glanced at his alarm clock- it was only just coming up to seven. He shifted until he was facing Jakes. The other man was still asleep, carelessly stretched out and taking up most of the bed. Morse propped his head up on his right hand and let his gaze wander over Jakes. His ink black hair was kinked up in odd tufts and stubble roughened his cheeks. The skin beneath his eyes was the colour of a bruise and his naturally sallow skin was too pale. He was lying on his side, his mouth open slightly, enticingly. Morse slowly reached out his free hand and barely suggested his finger tips over Jakes' eyebrow and then down his nose; he particularly enjoyed these lines and angles. They made him think of the exhibitions in the Ashmolean Museum, the statues from ancient Egypt, taking the form of beautiful princes. Morse inclined his head and he met Jakes' mouth. He simply held his lips against his for a few moments, experiencing their smooth softness. When he pulled back he saw that Jakes had been awakened by these light touches and he found himself looking into dark eyes fringed thickly by equally dark lashes.

"Morning." Morse was the first to speak. Jakes rubbed a hand over his face and then ran it through his hair, only serving to throw it into further disarray. 

"Morning. You sleep well?" 

Morse nodded, not wanting to say no when his companion had clearly slept very well. He didn't wish to attempt to inform Jakes how his eyes felt gritty every time he blinked or that there was a dull burning ache between his legs and reaching up to his hips. 

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he offered Jakes. 

"Oh yes please." 

Morse nodded, threw back the bed covers and stood up. He found his underwear easily enough in the puddles of clothes on the floor and pulled them on. As Morse went to the kettle, Jakes gathered the covers to himself, wanting to retain the heat generated by their bodies during the night.  
A few minutes later Morse returned to Jakes, handing him a mug of tea. He knew how the sergeant took it without having to ask (strong with only the tiniest splash of milk). Morse sat down beside him, pulling his legs up to his chest and cradling the mug between his hands. Jakes raised his free hand and stroked the back of it over Endeavour's thigh. 

"I...last night was really good." he said evenly. 

"Yes. Yes, it was." Morse returned. 

"I'm glad." Jakes rested his hand against Morse's leg. "And you're alright? I mean, after..."

Morse nodded sharply and drank deeply from his mug. 

"We could do it again. Sometime." 

Morse continued to talk into his tea. "I think I'd like that." 

 

Some days passed and it was May 1st. When Jakes arrived at the police station he caught himself casting his gaze across the floor, searching for Morse. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and gave an almost silent "hmph". After lighting his cigarette and taking the first drag he raised his eyes once more and sought Morse. He was sitting at his desk, inelegantly propping up his left cheek against his hand, letting the sheets of a report slide through his fingers. Jakes approached him.

"What did you get up to last night? Look at the state of you." 

Morse shifted his focus away from the paperwork. It was a secret code and a question at once and Morse grasped this instantly. They had spent the previous evening together at Jakes' bedsit. Morse's sergeant's exam was still on the horizon; however he had lost much of his taste for the task of studying and preparing for the test. He was also without his previous study partner. Strange had passed the exam with ease and was still in the first flush of the novelty of being a sergeant. Jakes understood this- hell, he himself still got a kick out of being a sergeant that was distinctly teenage. Strange had of late been throwing himself into each case going and in the process had fallen somewhat out of touch with Morse. It was not malicious or intentional but it had quite obviously left Morse without a drinking partner in the pub. He usually sat there contemplating his ever-emptying pint, his books unopened on the table in front of him.

Jakes reasoned that Morse would be even more of a sod if he failed to get his sergeant's this time round. He also admitted to himself that Morse would be wasted spending another year on general duties. He would not make such a sacrifice as to leave his friends in the pub to sit with Morse but he had tried to demonstrate his interest and his offer to help in other ways. He had worked at it slowly, just casually asking the constable how he was getting along with the prep. Morse hadn't shrugged him off or shut him down and so Jakes had ventured suggesting going over the material together. They met at either his or Morse's bedsit, took out the requisite tome and uncapped a bottle of Scotch. Jakes was secretly quite pleased when Morse had one time produced a bottle of Springbank. He would test Morse on the material, both the answers and the questions getting slightly more vague with each measure poured. At a certain point both book and bottle were pushed aside. 

Peter found his nights with Endeavour satisfying in a manner that had only been hinted at with previous lovers. He took genuine delight in seeing him tentatively move from being a passive recipient to equal partner to almost coquettish initiator. The first time Endeavour had stood up from his chair to climb on top of his lap and straddle him, and pressed himself against him, leisurely unbuttoning Jakes' shirt, a whisper of a smile on his lips- that was a memory that had the power to cause Jakes to become half-hard if he so much as thought about it, which had resulted in one or two interesting moments in work. 

Once again the previous evening found them in the secluded island of Peter's bed, him on top, rocking slowly and deeply against Endeavour, their foreheads pressed together, their breath green house warm and damp between each other.  
As he had learned to read his face, Peter began to understand how to read Endeavour's silence. He was not used to a lover who was so mute in the act. He wasn't even used to Morse just being so bloody quiet. Though initially thrown by this and to be honest, a mite bit offended, he started to grasp that this quietness was in itself release for Endeavour. This didn't prevent Peter from muttering appeals to some God figure when his own orgasm would grip him; it didn't stop him from giving voice to statements which he knew Endeavour could hear but mercifully never brought up in the sober light of day. 

Jakes' question was a secret message, something only they could understand the different layers to. Though a reminder of last night it was also a genuine query. For Jakes had woken up that morning alone, Morse already away.

"Today is May 1st." Morse replied. 

"Right. So any elaboration on that or am I just meant to know what that's about? You weren't out worshiping some ancient God, were you?"

Morse gave him a bemused look and Jakes knew he had succeeded in slagging him without over-stepping the boundary. 

"No, not quite. On May 1st each year, at dawn, just when the sun is rising, a choir sings in Magdalen College tower. I always go to hear it."

It was always music with Morse, wasn't it? Jakes could never fathom the appeal himself, all that classical instrumental stuff, the droning choir. But though he couldn't feel it himself he could imagine how impressive it would be- to sit in an ancient building in Oxford, the weakest light reaching in through the window whilst a chorus of human voices echoed music which had echoed down the centuries. 

"You and music. Is that how you get your kicks?" 

Morse turned back to his paperwork. "Not always."

 

The final week of May began and Jakes was extremely busy at work. As there was no murder case open or a similarly major case, as many police officers as possible where being assigned to maintaining order on the streets of Oxford. It was the dying days of Trinity term and with exams completed, assignments handed in and the fear of being sent down avoided for one more year, the student body were now in the mood to celebrate. Balls took place, parties broke out on the streets, pubs were packed beyond capacity. The main task of the police was to protect these youths from themselves- to ensure they didn't jump into the Cherwell drunk, that they didn't punch each other up, that young ladies were safe and that property was respected (especially that of the universities). Jakes himself knew it was impossible to contain such exuberance and in all honesty, it didn't bother him too much either. He took the approach of allowing the students to enjoy themselves as much as they wished to without causing too much damage He would attempt to talk to groups on his own, just asking them to please carry on indoors somewhere at least a little less in view of the population in general. He tried to picture Morse celebrating with such abandon during his own student days and could not. 

The end of the week came and all Jakes was fit for was getting to Morse's place and sinking into the bed, precariously holding onto a glass of whiskey. Morse had been on duty too and for a while they idly swapped stories of the sights they had come across.

"I was trying to picture you being one of those rowdy students." Jakes said. 

"And?" 

"Couldn't." 

Morse laughed softly. 

"Do you ever think about going back?" Jakes asked. 

"To Oxford?" Some moments passed in silence. Peter knew not to try to hurry Morse with his answer. "Sometimes." He seemed to admit it in spite of himself. "It's a nice fantasy to hold onto, the thought in the back of my head on a difficult day in work, that I can just throw it all in and return to the academe. But I don't believe I ever will. It would be too much of a cop-out, too much of an escape. I'm not saying that the academic life is a cop-out. For me however it would be. It would just be too easy." he trailed off. 

Jakes put down his now empty glass. "Maybe. You would have been a terrible Oxford don." 

"Thanks a lot."

"You know you would be. You'd be good at writing papers, good at giving lectures. But pity the student that ever contradicted your ideas or was a bit slow. Oh and how about you trying to get on with other dons and play nice to so-called important people at dinner parties?" 

Peter enjoyed how the smile softened Morse's features, lending an almost serene, Mona-Lisa like cast to his face. 

They were both too tired to do much more than undress one another and share a few touches before they both fell asleep. 

 

Jakes was dragged from a heavy slumber. His head was muzzy and myriad impressions swept across him as his mind struggled towards consciousness. He heard crying. Morse was crying, taking short, sharp breaths and giving quiet, brittle sobs. Peter pushed himself up and leaned over the younger man, almost covering his body with his without touching him. Morse was still asleep. He lay on his side, turned away from Peter, tear tracks shining wetly on his cheeks. Peter hesitated, wondering whether he should wake him. Morse continued to cry as he slept. Peter experienced a stark wave of compassion for him. 

"Oh Endeavour. What's to be done?" he scarcely whispered. 

He lay down beside him and carefully, seeking not to disturb or wake him, pressed himself up against his back and placed one arm around his spindly form. Morse did not stir and his crying did not ease for some time.


	9. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Perhaps […] all our loves are merely hints and symbols; a hill of many invisible crests; doors that open as in a dream to reveal only a further stretch of carpet and another door; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us."
> 
> Evelyn Waugh, "Brideshead Revisited".

Six months had passed, so swiftly as to be hardly noticed or felt. Time sped up the older you got, Jakes thought to himself. When he thought of his childhood it seemed unending; an unbroken stretch of evening, with the sun never quite setting into night. His twenties had positively run away from him he sometimes believed. 

He paid for his drinks, picked them up and went to join the small party sitting in the corner. He placed a pint in front of Morse, who nodded his thanks to him. Jakes slipped into his seat, already fishing his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. As he held the match to the cigarette tip he noticed Inspector Thursday looking at him. When he saw Jakes had become aware of him, he nodded approvingly. It took Jakes a moment to understand that the Inspector was pleased at how he appeared to have buried the hatchet with Morse. Jakes focussed his attention entirely on his cigarette for a few moments, suppressing the strong desire to laugh. If only he knew that the hatchet had been buried in the strangest and most unexpected way possible. 

Jakes found himself taking out another cigarette and lighting it off of the one he was not quite finished with yet. Christ, if the Inspector knew...if Strange knew...if anyone knew...

They were assembled in The Bear that night to celebrate Morse having finally passed his Sergeant's. Jakes had decided in favour of going, as he knew that the others had perceived the change in his working relationship with Morse and in his taunts and attitude to him. They continued to be sharp and (on occasion) condescending but there was a comraderie palpable in them. It would have appeared odder if he hadn't come along and bought Morse a celebratory drink. The Inspector would have been disappointed if he hadn't, he knew. Morse too probably, though he would never have betrayed this to him. 

If Jakes hadn't come it would've also made for a very small party- Inspector Thursday, Strange and Morse. Were they really the only friends Morse had? Well, he was sure he counted Max as a friend but their relationship appeared to only take place over corpses. 

The Inspector was chatting to him mildly about the day's work at the station. Jakes enjoyed listening to him; he spoke simply and easily, and seemed utterly at ease, solid. Strange was telling Morse some story about the previous weekend's antics and a slightly baffled expression touched Morse's face. Strange was an excellent officer, Jakes found himself thinking. He frowned at his half-drained pint glass, accusing it of allowing such generous thoughts into his mind. Still, it was true.  
He let his gaze slide briefly over Morse. It was nice to see him just enjoy a drink with mates, celebrating his bit of success. 

"They're both going to go far. In their own ways." It was as if Inspector Thursday had read his mind. Jakes nodded. 

"So will you." He attempted a small smile to acknowledge and accept what Thursday was saying. "I don't think a place like Oxford is big enough though. You need to spend time working in a big city. London. Have you thought about it?" 

He had. London had always been where he wanted to work, to live. 

The little party broke up, with each of them heading separate direcrions. Jakes went in the opposite direction to Morse but then made a sweeping circle back towards Morse's bedsit. Jakes found these elaborate smoke-screens tiring yet he was fiercely aware of how necessary they were.  
It was over a year now since he had come across Morse singing at his desk late one night. It was little under a year since they had embarked on this...this what between them? Jakes did not even attempt to articulate an answer or definition for he did not want to find one.  
They had been bloody lucky. There had been no near misses, no chancy encounters. They had kept their meet-ups within the boundaries of their flats almost exclusively. Jakes put his hand in his pocket, running his fingers over his lighter, keeping his head down as he made his way to Morse's bedsit. He suspected that Morse had no difficulty in keeping their meetings quiet. In this instance, his stand-offishness and semi-permanent frown served to fend off any questions about his private life. From listening to gossip, Jakes knew most of the station had him down as a grumpy bastard who would spend his days alone, going to strange operas and drinking just that bit too much. And Jakes had to quietly accept that they were not altogether too far off the mark.  
Jakes had a few more problems in keeping up the web of concealments he had had to construct. He sought to let his excuses to his friends be as vague as possible and to allow them come up with their own theories instead. He picked up that the commonly held belief was that he was running between two lovers, one a married woman and the other a more demanding girl who was attempting to get him to marry her. He was amused by these stories, as well as being relieved, and not to say a bit chuffed at what they thought him capable of. He had often thought of sharing this with Morse but something held him back from doing so. He wondered if perhaps he had already heard the stories but chose not to mention them to him. 

He had reached Morse's bedsit and been granted entrance. Morse had opened the door with a half-scowl on his face which had cleared to be replaced by a gentle but genuine smile. Bloody hell, did he do this on purpose? It was these moments, of such simple and open gladness at seeing him that wrong-footed Jakes every time. They didn't happen that often but he could probably remember each one of them. 

"Congratulations Sergeant." Jakes said, unable to stop a grin breaking out on his own face. Hell, he was proud of the contrary bugger and he felt he had a right to be proud of him, seeing as he not only helped him swot but also had managed to put up with him for so long.  
He came up behind Morse as he was pouring him a measure of Scotch and kissed the back of his neck, his nose momentarily pressed into his thick reddish-blonde hair. 

"I even got a card from Joycie." he said, handing Peter his glass. 

He still knew very little of Morse's half-sister. He remembered first hearing about her and assuming she was his sister, "Half-sister." Morse had corrected him. Strangely, by emphasising this half-connection, he made her sound closer to him than if she'd been just his sister, plain and simple. He knew even less of Morse's family and he never dared to pry into it. He waited rather for him to share what he wished to reveal. Still, Peter recognised that Joycie (Joycie! A nickname, for Christ's sake!) brought out a particular softness in Morse, a wish perhaps to be a big brother and protect her, though he often believed himself incapable of doing so. 

"She sent her congratulations but now it appears I have to wish her the same." He paused. "She just got engaged." 

Jakes put his glass to his lips and watched Morse to see if he would give him any hint as to what response he sought. 

"She's very young, isn't she?" This was genuinely Jakes' first thought. 

"She is but-" Morse shrugged slightly. "I think she'll be happy. She'll make him happy. And it would be good for her to get out of that house. Especially now it's just her and my step-mother. She's too nice a girl to have to stay with..." Morse shook his head. "No, I'm glad. It's just odd, that's all. I haven't even met my future brother-in-law. I half wish I was there now..."

"Well, you'll be at the wedding. You'll be the one to give her away, I suppose?" Jakes ventured. 

"Yes, I hope so." He appeared very pleased at this thought. "Still." He continued, getting up to refil their glasses. "Me at a wedding. I hope I won't have to make some kind of speech." 

"I doubt that." Jakes snorted. "I don't think you'll be called upon for that. However if it does happen, I would almost invite myself just to see you trying to make a nice speech." 

"You think I couldn't make a good speech?" 

"Oh, I'm sure you could and that you'd enjoy it too. But for Oxford people. You wouldn't know where to start in writing a speech for family and friends, the kind people want to hear at a wedding. You know, a speech without Latin quotes, opera references and five adjectives for a word you could've left out altogether." 

Morse shook his head over his companion's words but displayed no real irritation. 

"Asides from that, there would be all these distant relatives and people I'd never met. And I'd probably be expected to dance with someone at some point." 

"You make it sound so painful." 

"It would be." Morse half-laughed. 

"Anyone can dance." Jakes countered. 

"That is quite untrue. You can't dance."

"Hang on..."

"I've seen you!"

"That's a different kind of dancing..."

"Oh, I see, it just wasn't your preferred style of dancing..."

"You're such a bloody git, you know that? Here, I'll show you."

Peter put down his glass, stood up and held his hand out to Morse. He eyed his hand for a moment before taking it and standing up as well. 

"Look. You like music. That dreadful classical stuff." Morse looked ready to interject here, so Peter continued quickly. "Even that has a beat, a rhythm you can count. You must have some feel for that, even without being aware of it. Any fool can do the really easy dance steps. You won't be able to do anything fancy but you won't embarass yourself at least. Right." 

He took Morse's left hand in his right and placed his arm around his waist. 

"I'll lead first, then you copy what I'm doing." Jakes instructed him. 

"I can't dance without music."

"Of course you can. We just need to count."

And so they began; Jakes seeking to direct him, Morse getting tangled up in his own feet or falling out of the rhythm. Jakes kept up the simple beat, counting out loud and soon Morse was fiercely concentrated on keeping control of his feet and at the same time, matching his movements to Peter. 

"See! You've got the hang of it. Now you lead." 

They shifted positions, Morse moving his hand to Jakes' waist and they fell into an easy rhythm. 

"Told you it wasn't hard." Jakes said, coming to a halt.

He stayed in Endeavour's arms, unresisting. Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, he brought both his hands up to cup Morse's face and kissed him, kissed him so lightly. The kiss was not a prelude as they usually were; it had no aim or purpose. Peter kissed Endeavour, scarcely parting his lips, the touch of his tongue only hinted at. Endeavour pulled Peter closer to him, pressing his palms against the small of his back and rubbing his thumbs back and forth across the material of his shirt. Peter broke the kiss, his hands still resting on either side of Endeavour's face. He held the gaze of those large grey eyes and moved his hand to stroke it through his unruly hair, coming to rest at the nape of his neck. He raised his other hand and his fingertips traced the sharp line of Endeavour's cheek bones, moved lightly over the fan of lines already dug around his eyes, moved over his curling lips. 

If ever there had been a moment to ask- What are we doing? What are you doing? What are we going to do? Christ, you're gorgeous, you are bloody gorgeous and I don't understand that. How can I feel like this about you? Why won't you let me in? Why were you crying in your sleep? Why do you have to be you and not somebody else? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.- If ever there had been a time for these words, it was at that moment, as the two men held onto one another and stayed in this tight, almost desperate embrace. But that brief, brief moment flickered out, as swiftly as it came. Instead Peter Jakes found himself having to acknowldge and accept what Endeavour had known and silently resigned himself to, before they had become friends, before that first kiss on the White Horse. 

This; this had to stop.


	10. The Crossword Puzzle.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If Rosalind Calloway had brought beauty into his life, then Peter Jakes had brought challenge."

There wasn't much to see. The housing estate was quiet and empty of its residents at this time of day. The only sign of any disturbance was the almost obscene dark blood stain, resembling a thick and unfinished brush stroke.  
Peter Jakes leaned up against the nearest garden wall, smoking. He inhaled mechanically. Today the taste of even this was tainted. Jakes had seen some murders which had disturbed him, shocked him, acts of violence he knew he would never entirely forget. Yet, this was worse and he couldn't put into words as to why. It wasn't the senselessness of the crime but rather the careless nature of it, having to recognise how utterly selfish and unfeeling his fellow man could be. 

A middle-aged lady had returned from her weekly shopping. As she had been getting out of the car, which she had parked by the side of the road (These houses did not possess their own parking space) an unknown youth had knocked her to the ground, and jumped into the car. In his haste to make a getaway, he had reversed over her. 

Jakes tossed the cigarette butt to the ground. He wanted nothing more than to just leave. He knew no arrest would be made in this case. They had a few witnesses but their statements were vague at best. They would find the car in a few days time, trashed and burnt out. They may arrest, unknowingly, the culprit for a future offence. But for Peggy Wilson, there will be nothing to show. 

Jakes watched Morse as he fruitlessly continued to talk to one of the witnesses. If only he could go over to him and have him take his hand, squeeze it and not let go for a while, Christ, it would lift this dulling heaviness from his chest.  
Jakes turned his gaze to the ground. Usually he could keep separate those two areas of his life; the professional he was at the station, and then what he and Morse did. (Although it was not even just what they did, but how they were together.) This was the first time he had experienced such a sharp need for the other man outside the cocoon of their respective bedsits.  
The transfer was a good idea, he thought to himself. It would take about six months, they told him.  
He had yet to tell Endeavour. 

 

"Well, why do we have to be at the scene?" Jakes barked into the phone. "Look, it was an accident, a terrible one, but what does it have to do with us?" 

"It's only that...well, someone must have left him there." 

"What?" 

Jakes knew that most of the station were listening to his shouted end of the phone call. He didn't particularly care. He'd had little sleep and was under-caffeinated, and -nicotined. He'd had it up to here in all honesty. A call had come through, with news of an elderly gentleman who had been missing for some days. He was suffering from dementia and somehow he had slipped away when his eldest daughter hadn't been looking. A moment's lapse of attention and he had wandered off, his faithful old Jack Russell at his heels. They could only guess as to what had happened, but most likely he had begun walking, certain of where he was going and what imagined errand he was attending to. Then he forgot and not knowing what else to do, had kept walking, following the footpath, his dog still with him. Missing person posters had been put up and Jakes had scarcely registered them at the station. He knew how the story was going to end. The conclusion he had expected had come this morning. The body of an elderly man had been found out on a football field at the back of a housing estate. They were not certain yet how long the man, Felix Miller, had lain there for. He had died of exposure, already weakend by fragile health, compounded by days without food and water. Jakes didn't want to allow this into his head. He had experienced a relief laced with guilt at his own selfishness, knowing that this case would not be something he would have to deal with personally. But this phone call was telling him otherwise. 

"He'd been robbed." 

"And?" Jakes said, only half-listening, cradling the phone between his head and shoulder, freeing up both his hands to find his rogue cigarettes. 

"Well, they took the money from his wallet and the empty wallet was left beside his body." 

He had just grasped an open packet of cigarettes he had discovered under a pile of papers. He froze. 

"Are you saying that someone...came across his body, his dead body, and took the wallet off of him, grabbed the cash, left the wallet there and sauntered off again, without a..."

"Yes." came the very quiet voice of the constable on the other end. 

Jakes swallowed dryly, his throat clicking. "Thank you for informing us. We'll be on that as soon as we can." 

He let the receiver clatter back into place. He sat, staring at the phone, hoping it would stay silent for some time. 

How...how could someone kneel beside a cold, lonely body and rummage through their pockets and walk off, without feeling compelled to at least inform somebody? 

Oh Christ, the dog. That meant they had seen the dog too and had done nothing. That dog had sat guard by his owner, had been found curled up beside the man's shoulder. Fifteen minutes after the police had reached the scene, the little creature had quietly died, his duty to his master complete. Someone had actually seen that poor thing sitting there, waiting so patiently, and had turned their back on him. He closed his eyes, biting down hard on his bottom lip, fighting against the sudden burning sensation at the back of his throat and in his eyes. When he opened them, he saw Morse standing over him. He had a mug of tea in each hand and he placed one carefully on Jakes' desk. He had to give a half-snort at this. It was the first time Morse had made him tea; at work anyway.  
He sat on the edge of his desk. Neither of them drank their tea. He looked at Morse's rumpled form. Hell, he looked the same as he felt. He watched as Morse's hand clenched and unclenched before going to rest on his own thigh, gripping it almost. Peter understood in a moment that Morse, whether he was aware of his actions or not, wished to do the same to Jakes, to offer some sign of comfort and solidarity, and more than just a cup of tea.  
He picked up the pack of cigarettes and found that they were empty. 

"Fuck!" He threw the packet at the wall. Christ, what a pathetic gesture, to chuck a flimsy piece of cardboard at the wall. 

He stood up and met Endeavour's wide grey eyes. He saw shock there, and a slight wariness. He grabbed his coat and started striding towards the door. 

"I need to get cigarettes." 

"But I have some here..." Morse began. 

Jakes slammed the door behind him, wishing he hadn't heard what he'd started to say. 

 

As Morse was leaving at the end of the day, he was stopped by Jakes calling his name. The Sergeant fell into step beside him, fidgeting with his lighter as they went. When they were outside the station Peter came to a halt and half-turned to Morse. 

"I'm being transferred. To London." 

Morse put his hands in his coat pockets and looked away. "I know." 

"How do you know?" Jakes asked sharply. 

"Oh, I just worked it out. No-one told me." 

They said nothing for a few long moments, neither knowing how to proceed. 

It was a fresh winter's evening. A half-moon shone clearly in the empty black sky. Jakes watched each puff of their warm breath disappearing into the air. 

"I haven't been keeping it from you. It just...I didn't know when to say it." Jakes mouth tugged downwards, a shrug but with his lips instead of his shoulders. 

"I'm glad you're going." Morse started. Jakes looked over at him, questioning. "It's what you've wanted for a long time. It's too small for you here. I've noticed you getting twitchy. Impatient." In his own thoughts, Morse likened him to a panther prowling inside a cage, as in Rilke's poem. Not only was Jakes fed up with being confined to Oxford, he was tired of feeling himself a spectacle for others. London would suit him- a city great enough for him to make his particular mark and find success, but at the same time, large enough for him to be able to disappear in when he needed it. 

Jakes seemed to make a few stops and starts before finally deciding to say- "I'm looking forward to it. I'm sort of excited actually." He quietly laughed at himself, at how child-like these sentences sounded.  
Endeavour smiled at seeing Peter this way. "20 pounds says you'll be Commissioner of the Met." 

Jakes laughed fully this time. "Why not, eh? Why bloody not?"

Anything was possible. Well, nearly anything.  
He stepped closer to Morse and dropping his voice to a husky smoke-tipped whisper, "I wish I could kiss you right now." 

"Me too." 

 

Endeavour sat on his bed, his back up against the wall. "Tosca" played very much in the foreground; "Vissi d'arte", sung by Maria Callas. Such a beautiful woman, he thought, such fine, tragic eyes. And that voice! A bottle of Glenfiddich stood near him, uncapped and half-emptied. Vissi d'arte, he mouthed to himself, not even speaking the words. I lived for art.  
Endeavour was going over the events of the previous night, and of that morning, seeking to turn it all into a memory. He was happier with memories. He sought to rub the sharp edges off, to make it blurred and more beautiful for it. And bearable.  
For it hurt. He closed his eyes and drank, pouring the whiskey down his throat, hardly tasting it, just wanting it in him.  
The one who leaves is the one who smiles. The one who stays behind is the one who cries. 

 

The previous night had been Jake's farewell do. Not much of a do really, more just Bright saying a few stilted words and then everyone gratefully decamping to the pub, The Honeypot to be precise. Morse had reluctantly bought Jakes a drink and spent the rest of the evening hanging around the fringes of the merriment. Jakes was surrounded by his cronies and other hangers-on, recounting stories and jokes Morse had no clue about. Thursday had taken Jakes aside for a few minutes and the two had been talking to each other earnestly. It was during this lull that Morse decided to slip away. 

Restless and unable to sleep, he had put on "Tristan and Isolde" and searched for whiskey. He cursed when he discovered his supply was gone and it was too late to go somewhere to purchase more.  
Lacking alcohol, he had picked up several books, one after the other, flicking through them briefly, reading half a page before putting them down again. Rilke held his attention however, and he read the poem over and over, the one the book had happened to fall open on. 

"I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough  
to make every hour holy.  
I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough  
just to stand before you like a thing,  
dark and shrewd.  
I want my will, and I want to be with my will  
as it moves towards deed;  
and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times,  
when something is approaching,  
I want to be with those who are wise  
or else alone."

He was so engrossed in the words and shrouded in the music which continued to play that it took him some time to perceive the light plinking sound at his window. Morse put the book down and went to his window, pulling the curtain aside. Looking through the glass, he saw Jakes standing out on the street, chucking pebbles at his window. Morse had to smile at the absurdity of it. 

He went downstairs and let Jakes in. Once ensconced in Endeavour's rooms, Peter closed any space between them and kissed him; long and deep, his fingers caressing Endeavour's neck and thumbing across his jawline. Peter broke the kiss only to knock the bloody opera off.  
He pushed Endeavour up against the wall and quickly divested himself of his clothes, the other man easily keeping pace, his desire as blatant as Peter's. Peter murmured to Endeavour to turn around and he obeyed this request. He felt Peter's hot breath on his neck and his hands siding down his back. The hotness disappeared and suddenly he felt a hand on his cock and experienced Peter's lips and tongue tentatively seeking access between his cheeks. Endeavour pressed his hands against the wall, needing purchase, some form of balance. His breath came in tiny little gasps.  
Peter rose up once more and pressed Endeavour against the wall, covering his body with his own. He licked the outline of his ear with the tip of his tongue before whispering, "I bet no-one's ever done that with you before."  
Endeavour felt Peter's cock pushing against his cheeks. And I doubt anyone ever will again, was the last coherent thought he had. 

 

They lay in bed together, on their sides, turned towards one another.  
There were crosswords, Endeavour thought as he let his eyes rest on Peter, where each clue had two potential answers. Both answers would fit and the entire crossword would nearly come out, but for one clue, if you set about interpreting the clues the wrong way, the other way. Nearly solved but for one clue where the answer wouldn't fit. He often believed that was how those around him tried to deal with him- they had the right clues and everything else wrong. Peter Jakes had come the nearest yet and even he had ended up with an incomplete grid, the blank white squares fitted with disparate letters and gaps in between.  
He doubted he would find many others like Jakes. Perhaps one other, during his life, someone who knew what he was like, mostly, and in spite of this knowledge, stayed.  
Except he wouldn't be staying for much longer. He was taking a train to London that morning, in a mere handful of hours.  
He remembered Jakes words to him that night when he happened upon him singing. "Now I know where to find the songbird." Peter had applied the name to him yet he could so easily reverse it. Peter had in a way become a song bird; a flashy, exotic being, burning brightly. For if Rosalind Calloway had brought beauty into his life, Peter Jakes had brought challenge. 

"Endeavour." Peter had whispered to him. (Why whisper when they were alone? Perhaps because even merely whispered their intimacy seemed too, too loud.) "Can you do to me what I usually do to you? I want to have you inside me." 

And with great uncertainty, Endeavour began. 

 

They did not sleep that night. They talked, drank and smoked, and touched one another, going through all the acts they had in their repertoire. But eventually morning became undeniable, and Jakes got up, collecting his scattered clothing, slowly dressing himself. 

"I have to go and get my things, and then get to the train station." 

Morse nodded. Peter came to sit in front of him on the bed. "How are we going to do this? Are we saying goodbye now or...?" 

For it was to be goodbye and not see you soon. Though London was no distance they both knew once Peter departed the spell that they had been under would break, never to be created again. 

Endeavour shifted and nearly deposited himself in Peter's lap. He placed his hand behind Peter's neck and pulled him close. Their lips met in what they knew was to be their last kiss.  
The kiss ended but they remained as they were, messily entangled. Eventually they separated and without a word, Peter stood up, looking at Endeavour, before turning and leaving, closing the door quietly behind him. 

 

But Morse could never leave anything alone and after hastily making himself decent, he headed to the train station. Peter stood on the platform, two worn suitcases at his feet and cigarette packet in hand. He approached and Jakes turned at the sound of footsteps. He smiled, clearly surprised but pleasantly so. 

"You came to see me off?"

"I thought someone should be here for the occasion." 

A pause. Morse continued. "When's the train arrive?" 

"About 15 minutes. You want a cigarette?" 

Morse nodded. Jakes handed him a cigarette and their finger tips touched briefly. Sticking the cigarette in his mouth, he leaned into the flame from Jakes' lighter.  
There was no need for the stock phrases of "Safe journey" or "Best of luck". Morse wished Jakes the best of luck in his new life, however grudgingly. Jakes knew this. That was enough. 

The train pulled into the station slowly. Peter stood closer to Endeavour and ran his fingers over the back of his hand before picking up his suitcases. 

"Try to look after yourself Morse." He called out, boarding the train. 

He looked up, smilling at Jakes as the train began to move off. He stayed there until even the sound of the engine had faded into nothing. 

 

"Tosca" had finished playing and Endeavour finally roused himself to turn the LP over and dropping the needle, began listening to it once again. 

"Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore,  
non feci mai male ad anima viva!  
Con man furtiva  
quante miserie conobbi aiutai...

...e diedi il canto agli astri, al ciel,  
che ne ridean più belli.  
Nell’ora del dolor  
perchè, perchè, Signor,  
ah, perchè me ne rimuneri così?"


	11. The Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "FROM far, from eve and morning  
> And yon twelve-winded sky,  
> The stuff of life to knit me  
> Blew hither: here am I. 
> 
> Now—for a breath I tarry  
> Nor yet disperse apart—  
> Take my hand quick and tell me,  
> What have you in your heart. 
> 
> Speak now, and I will answer;  
> How shall I help you, say;  
> Ere to the wind’s twelve quarters  
> I take my endless way." 
> 
> A.E. Housman

He was getting too old for this, Peter Jakes grumbled to himself as he pulled his coat on. Today had been a particularly trying day- a murder investigation was being completely ballsed up by Chief Inspector Painter and being Chief Superintendent, Jakes had to put some order on affairs. Sometimes he felt his duties had changed precious little over his thirty years plus of service- supervising others and attempting to either reign them in or prod them along. 

A woman of Romanian origin had been found murdered in a hotel room. Painter was not the most tactful of people (a bloody understatement) and a few careless remarks on his part had got the media enraged on one side and excited on the other (Christ, he hated nationalists.) He spent most of the day repairing the damage done before meeting with Painter himself, threatening to send him on a course to learn sensitivity (no, he wasn't making it up, such courses were certainly available, and Painter looked horror-struck at the thought of spending twelve weeks on one.). That out of the way, he'd then been briefed by Painter as to how the case stood. Jakes had given him directions (orders) as to what to pursue next. Finally his day was done and he could go home. 

It would be so much easier to suffer these fools if only he could smoke. Instead, he unwrapped another piece of chewing gum and popped it into his mouth. It only helped a little. Nearly a year, he repeated to himself. Nearly a year off the smokes. 

As much as he complained it was all just a conspiracy, this trend for villifying the act of smoking, he did accept that cigarettes were having an effect on his health. Smoking even felt different as he grew older. Up until his mid-thirties he had noticed no particular side-effects. But as his forties crept along he lost any enjoyment for it. He developed a hacking cough, which was neither fun nor attractive. It was also mortifying when he launched into a coughing fit as he was supposed to be giving a speech to his department or a bollocking to some officer. He could only wince as he imagined how he appeared. Eventually, he began to wake himself up at night with it. He found it more and more difficult to catch his breath and he had long since lost any sense of taste. However it was only after he had developed the second stomach ulcer last year at the age of sixty that he had finally accepted that he had to at least cut back on his forty a day. 

Giving up smoking was quite possibly the most difficult task he had ever taken on. He applied his old mindset, the one which had seen him through school and then the police: sheer bloody-mindedness. He would master going without nicotine just as he had made himself understand A-Level maths and swotted for his Inspector's exam. 

As the weeks and months without smoking accumulated, he realised it wasn't so much the nicotine he missed as the ritual, the act of taking out his cigarettes, lighting one and holding it between his fingers. If he was going to be fully honest, he missed the effect. No matter what, he would always associate smoking with the debonair heroes of the movies he had grown up with. He also fretted about putting on weight after renouncing the smokes. Christ, he had bumped into Strange the other day (Chief Superintendent, if you don't mind); the man had ballooned over the years. That was something at least, Jakes thought as he walked through the corridors of the police station. He may not have got any higher than Strange but he'd kept his figure- and his hair. He even rather liked how it had gone entirely grey. 

He came upon a small group clustered together, some of the Sergeants, discussing a Chief Inspector position which had just opened up in Thames Valley. 

"You mean Morse has finally retired?" 

Jakes stopped for only a moment, making his enquiry as casually as possible. Hearing that name always made him pause a beat, whether literally as now, or just causing his train of thought to halt. It still had enough power to make him smile or shake his head before resuming what he had been engaged in. 

"No Sir, he actually died a few days ago."

Jakes looked carefully at the Sergeant who had just replied to him. "You can't be serious." 

"I'm sorry Sir. I heard Inspector Davies on the phone to Superintendent Strange. It was a heart attack." 

One of the other Sergeants chimed in at this point. "Well, they say heart-attack but really, his drinking was famous even here at the Met. The man drank himself to death."

"What a man may or may not be doing outside of the police force has no bearing on his ability as an officer." Jakes snapped. "How many cases have you solved then? Exactly. Show some more respect." 

He turned back to the first Sergeant. "Did you hear if there was going to be a funeral?" 

"No Sir, there's to be no ceremony of any kind." 

"Right. Right." Jakes walked on, his hand going to his coat pocket out of habit, seeking cigarettes that weren't there.

 

He drove home slowly, navigating the roads smoothly though he was only superficially aware of them. A deep sadness sat within him. He was numb to all other thoughts, to the sense of tomorrow and yesterday.  
The grief he had experienced over his wife's death had nearly wiped him out. He had not imagined himself capable of such emotion and this made his devastation more powerful. He had been clueless as to what to do or merely how to be. She was just no longer there. Time ceased to pass but remained one long un-thing. 

When he had first arrived in London, he treated it as his own playground. He had enjoyed affairs with women and men, enjoyed his newfound freedon in this city. These affairs never developed into anything more. He didn't bloody well have the time for that as he scrambled up the career ladder. But he turned 34, was promoted into a recently vacated Chief Inspector's position and met the woman he would later marry. 

He had heard her before he'd seen her; Peter had been standing in the doorway, searching the flat for anyone he knew and trying to remember why he had come to this party. He heard voices behind him; one was a man using the worst chat-up lines he had ever heard. The other was a woman who kept dissolving into giggles at these ridiculous lines. He couldn't help but smile to himself at her reaction. By the end of the night he had her name and number. Emily was a dark-haired beauty, with wicked flashing eyes and a full figure. She worked as a teacher and was new to London, having moved over from Ireland. They were married in a year. He had loved her, truly, and missed her every day. They had had such wonderful times together, whether tumbling into bed or watching their two daughters grow. She never stopped laughing or taking the piss out of her husband, even as the cancer began to take hold. 

He could still scarcely bring himself to think about those final days as she faded. He saw his father in himself now, how the man had been devastated by his mother's loss. Devastated. He pondered the word. De-vast-stated. That was it; he felt as if he had been undone, unmade, the full self he had been unravelling. 

Two years had somehow passed since then. Work had kept him moving forward or at least kept him moving. His eldest, Rebecca, had moved back in unasked and had yet to leave. Neither wanted to say how much they had come to like having the other around. 

Emily had been wonderful with the children when they were small. Though Peter was bursting with pride over them, he was often uncertain as to how to be with them. Also, working the long and unpredictable hours that he did meant he didn't see them as much as perhaps he should have. But when they had become teenagers their relationship had strengthened. He saw so much of his own cockiness and self-consciousness in them and his understanding for them was deep and never condescending. 

As he got out of the car, he found himself looking forward to seeing Rebecca. He entered his apartment on Bayswater Road; music played softly in the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of a knife chopping on a board. 

"Hey Dad!" Rebecca only looked up briefly as Peter came into the kitchen. 

She was the image of her father and everyone commented on it. Her hair was black and unruly, cut short. She was tall and wiry, and perfection itself in a crisp tailored shirt. She was 25 and had followed in her mother's steps, becoming a teacher. At the age of 18, she had sat down with her mum, dad and sister Ciara, and stuttering, told them that she was gay. It had been no great issue, had caused no upheaval. Peter had merely been startled at how things had changed since he was young, and also felt overwhelmed that his own daughter felt secure enough to make this admission to them. 

"How was work?" she asked him, continuing to chop vegetables. 

Peter swallowed drily. "I need a cigarette."

Rebecca stopped what she was doing immediately and stared at him. "What happened? Are you alright?" 

He clenched his hands at his sides, not wanting to explain but by Christ, after thirty years he needed to. 

"Someone I used to know died and-" He shook his head helplessly. "I don't know how to-"

Rebecca reached into her pocket and went to her father, holding out the packet of Silk Cuts. He took them and they dragged two chairs over to the kitchen window. He drew on the cigarette slowly and carefully, reacquainting himself with the taste and sensation. 

"Was it a friend, a colleague?"

"Both. His name was Morse. I was a Sergeant and he was a Constable, in Oxford."

"So, you'd known each other a long time?"

"Well, I haven't seen him in thirty years."

"You guys lost touch?" 

"Yes and no. I think we both chose not to see one another again. Well, properly; of course we bumped into one another at police dos or on big investigations."

"Did you have a falling out?"

"No. No. We-" What? What had he and Morse been? "We, we weren't together as such, never would've described it that way but yes, I suppose..."

He trailed off, watching his daughter apprehensively and let his cigarette burn to ash. 

"You know I love your mum, always loved her and still do..." He began when she continued to say nothing. 

"Oh Jesus, dad, no, I wasn't thinking that at all. I just didn't know what to say yet, that's all." She reassured him. 

He lit another cigarette, a slight tremor in his hand. 

"I've never told anyone that."

"You mean you've kept this to yourself all this time?" 

"Things were different then. I bet he never told anyone either. Wasn't really able to tell anyone. If anyone found out it was the end of me in the police. And I wasn't brave enough to see what would happen if it had become known."

He sighed and looked out the window at the London skyline. 

"Hey," Rebecca said quietly. "Tell me about him. Tell me about Morse."

So he did. He told her about the constable who had come in from Carshall-fucking-Newtown, and taken his job, and how the two of them had had an instant reaction against one another. He was an Oxford Boy but hadn't completed his degree, and his great loves in life were cross words and opera. And beer. He was a ridiculous bundle of contradictions. He had taken the pledge but slid into too great a fondness for (reliance on) whiskey and ale. He could be compassionate and generous but was arrogant too and just couldn't get on with people. Hated authority. Wasn't particularly ambitious. And Christ, he was gorgeous. Rebecca asked if he had a photo and he did, tucked at the bottom of a chest of drawers. He had kept a copy of that newspaper, from all those years before, where Morse had been snapped after singing with TOSCA. Jakes had hardly allowed himself to look at the picture over the years. Yet he needed to know that he had it. The faded image awakened his much more vivid memories; of the large grey eyes, reddish-blonde hair, his too-thin frame and the curve of his mouth. The sound of his voice came back to him, the furrowing of his brow, the nervous tic of his hand reaching to touch his ears, and how he had looked on the brink of coming. All that, all those carefully preserved memories became even sharper when Peter had to understand that this man was now dead. 

He told her about walking in on Morse singing, making him tea, observing him and inch by inch coming ever closer to him. How he had taken him to the White Horse and lain beside him, his breathing scarcely under control as he tried to decide if he should kiss Morse because Christ, he needed to. Looking back now, a year seemed so brief and that was all they had had together. He could not pick out specific moments of their affair, moments he thought perhaps Rebecca would enjoy hearing about. The distance between then and now was so great when he sought to focus on it; he could not grasp it, it slipped away from his hands, escaping back into the river like a fish evading capture, its tail winking in the sun as it swam away, the light hitting the water too sharply, too blinding to make any sense of it, to find the shape or outline. 

A confusion of impressions remained, of great joy and a dull ache from the remaining distance they had failed to close between one another. He had no regrets for there was nothing he could've done differently. It would have been almost easier to have regrets, to berate himself for making mistakes as a foolish young man. But for him and Endeavour, it was nothing that either of them could have done, or undone. 

They had been thrown together and found something with one another they could never have conceived of. Had it formed him? No. But it remained with him, the figure of a beautiful spiky youth ghosting through his dreams, imagining Morse's reaction to something, or teasing him in his mind on occasion. 

The only regret the he did have was that Morse had probably been full of regrets. But that was just how he wished it. He lay himself down in his memories as Dorothy had in "The Wizard of Oz", drowsing away in the field of flowers just outside of the Emerald City. This difference between them would've driven them apart, Jakes was certain. 

He would mourn Endeavour Morse, that strange man whom he could never have loved. He remembered Morse once telling him in a voice thickened by Scotch, that he was afraid to die alone. Jakes had said he hoped he would live until he was ready for death. He was uncertain now if such a time would ever come.  
He shed no tears for Morse and at the end of the night placed the newspaper containing his photograph once more at the bottom of the same drawer.


End file.
